Gone
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: Set immediately after the winter finale of Jacksonville. Just one possible course of events, which - like life- is not a straight line, but a series of choices leading in vastly different directions. This is one of those directions...
1. Chapter 1

_Thanks to Fringe creators for entertaining the possibilities of multiple universes. Every one of our stories are can live there._

**Gone **

_**Chapter 1**_

He grabbed his jacket from the bed and threw one last look at himself in the mirror. _Damn,_ he thought, he needed a haircut badly. He was starting to look like Walter. He tried flattening it down with his palms, brushing it back with his fingers, but nothing could settle the fact that, left unchecked, his hair grew fast, curly and big. He sighed. At least he had shaved an hour ago, but even that would be stubble by midnight.

He grinned to himself, knowing that he was nervous. _Just drinks,_ he had told his father. That's what normal people do. But he was kidding himself. His life was not now, nor had ever _been,_ normal. He was pretending and fooling no one in the process, but dammit, she made him feel like a schoolboy sometimes, all knock-kneed and self-conscious and very much out of his league. It was silly, he knew, but right now, after the drama of these last few days, he welcomed it with open arms.

So with one last deep breath, he pulled on his jacket and bounded down the stairs.

But Olivia Dunham was gone.

* * *

She sat in her car across the street from their house, unable to control the tremors that had started in her body. Her hands were white as they gripped the steering wheel, as if she could physically hold on to the remnant of what this night could have been. It was shattered and so was she and she feared she would never recover. _Could _never recover, from this horrible nightmare that had become her life.

John, Charlie and now Peter.

She saw light spill from the doorway, saw a figure silhouetted within its frame. She could tell it was him, not his father, by his build, by his body language. He was looking for her in the darkness and she prayed he wouldn't step outside onto the porch for a better look. He had a habit of finding her and right now, she didn't want to be found. Not by him, not by anyone. She wanted to scream and if he found her, she would. She would scream and she would cry and she would bolt, or worse, she would collapse into his arms at the first touch and that, she decided, would be most unwise for any of them.

Never again. For anyone. Ever.

The light dimmed and the door closed and the night, with all of its possibilities, was gone.

She dropped her face into her hands and wept.

* * *

"What the hell did you say to her, Walter?!" It wasn't so much a question as an accusation.

"Nothing, son. She…she's not well…" Walter Bishop swallowed. He wasn't the best of liars, although by now he should have been. Or perhaps he was simply tired of it. The truth was a pressing thing. Sometimes there was no escaping it. If only he could convince himself. "I fear that perhaps, these last few days are proving too much for her …"

He could tell his son did not believe him. The setting of the jaw, the narrowing of the eyes, the weight of suspicion. It was worse than a slap to the face. He swallowed again.

"Peter…"

There was a knock at the door, and Peter swung 'round, throwing it open in expectation. "Olivia?"

"No, just me." Wide dark eyes, elfin features, a mass of curly black hair. Astrid. Sweet Astrid, patient Astrid, true Astrid. "Why? Is that bad?"

The tension was overwhelming, as Walter glanced from his son to the Junior Agent and back again, and Peter stood staring at the floor, hands curling into fists. Carrying secrets of her own, she tried her best not to look at either Bishop. Finally, as suddenly as it had descended, the tension left.

"No," said Peter, lifting his head and trying to smile. "That's not bad, Astrid. C'mon in." He stepped aside to allow her entrance. "I…I'm just heading out."

"Oh. Okay. I thought…"

"Nah," he said. "Not happening."

Walter stepped forward. He was wringing his hands. "Where are you going, son?"

"Drinking, Walter. I am going drinking. That's what normal people do."

And he left the house, his boots making thunking noises as they carried on down the steps and finally out into the dark street. With a furrowed brow, Astrid closed the door behind him and he was gone.

* * *

The morning sunlight made the ancient Harvard lab an almost cheerful place. It spilled across the old stone walls, glittered off vials and beakers and metal equipment, made the vast array of coloured wires look like rainbows after a summer shower. Even the cow looked happy in sunlight.

Astrid was already there when Olivia Dunham walked in.

"Hey," called the Junior Agent, not looking up from her work.

"Hey," Dunham echoed back, her tone flat, distracted, and Astrid, still being every inch an FBI agent, looked up at that.

"What's up?" she asked.

Dunham's hair was loosed this morning, and it reflected that sunlight as she glanced around the lab. "They not in?"

"Nope. Not yet."

"Hmm."

_And they probably won't be in for a while,_ Astrid wanted to add, _because Walter was a basket case all evening and took a lot of drugs before bed and Peter has a hangover and they might have just killed each other sometime during the night._

_But Astrid, being the soul of discretion, said nothing for a long time. Honestly, she didn't know what to say. Secrets were not the best conduits for conversation._

Finally, Olivia released a deep breath and strolled over to her desk. She rapped the surface with her knuckles, obviously uncomfortable and processing something.

"So. How were they last night?" Green eyes met brown. "Peter and Walter, I mean?"

"Weird."

Olivia shrugged, tried to smile. "They're always weird."

"Not like this."

Dunham nodded, looked down, still processing.

Astrid Farnsworth was a people person. More accurately, she was a people-loving introverted person, as happy to be with people as she was happy to be alone. She could find delight in most situations, but lately, the lab with its three fellow occupants had become a deep, dark and dangerous place to be. She cleared her throat.

"Um, Olivia?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember a few weeks ago, when Peter was sick?"

Brow furrowed, Dunham nodded. "Yeah."

"Walter… said something…"

"Something?"

"Something weird."

Dunham waited.

"Something really weird. Even for Walter." Astrid swallowed, not knowing how to proceed. "Olivia, I know it's probably none of my business, but…"

"But?"

"I need to show you something…"

Dunham raised her brows.

When the Bishop men finally made it into the lab later that morning, the women were gone. But the cow was happy to see them.

* * *

They drove to a cemetery.

Even before they got out of the SUV, Dunham knew. She hadn't slept at all that night, as puzzle pieces arranged, dislocated, came together, moved apart. But here, now, even sitting in the car, seeing line upon line of pale grey headstones, she knew for a fact what Astrid had brought her here to see, and the puzzle suddenly fell into place. Every odd, 'weird', cryptic thing Walter had ever said or did made sudden, terrible, gut-wrenching sense.

It was a beautiful cemetery, small in comparison to many others she had seen, high on a hill in north Cambridge. As they walked, Astrid was talking. Dunham was doing her best to listen. She felt disconnected, however. Numb.

"I wish I had let it go. Honestly, Olivia, I just never thought…"

"It's okay, Astrid."

"I just started digging. It was hard going, but it's all there, in the city records, if you know how and where to look…"

The Junior Agent finally stopped under a stand of young beech trees, looked down. Dunham did likewise, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets. It was a small stone compared to those around it, a small plot for a small body. The name, the dates. It all made terrible sense.

He had been seven years old.

Olivia felt nothing at all. She was already dead inside. _'You have replaced fear with anger', he had said. What did you replace love with?_

"I didn't want to say anything, but this…" Astrid shook her head. "This is too weird, even for me…"

There was something on top of the stone, and Dunham reached for it. It was a coin. She thought she recognized it but she couldn't be sure. Peter always played with coins when he was restless. It was no coincidence. She slipped it in her pocket.

"So, did Walter, like…bring him back from the dead or something?"

Dunham took a deep breath, shook her head.

'No," she said flatly. "Worse."

* * *

Walter Bishop was miserable.

He had awakened with a splitting headache, a completely predictable side effect from far too many barbiturates the night before. In fact, he had debated popping a few antidepressants to improve his mood, but he was afraid of what Peter might think. This day could very well go south at any time and truth be told, he wanted to be lucid for every minute of it. The misery he would gladly bear to keep his wits about him and his son in the dark.

Peter, for his part, had said nothing all morning.

So they sat, each at different stations, Walter working on isolating a reagent to compliment the effects of _Cortexiphan_, and Peter googling the latest botched contacts with the Aymara people of Central Peru, a topic that had seemed to capture his interest for the last several months. But the lab was quiet, and without music, Walter was stretched almost beyond his limits. There were some things that just couldn't be sacrificed.

"Peter?"

"Walter, what did I say?"

"But Peter…"

_"What? Did? I? Say?"_ Each word bitten and precise. The boy was angry.

The elder Bishop sighed, arms sagging. "You said you did not wish to hear me utter one word for the next 24 hours."

"And how many words have you uttered so far?"

"Well, that would be twenty."

Finally Peter looked up from his computer, face impassive, expression stern. "And how many more than 'not one' is that?"

"Would you be speaking of rational numbers, irrational or quantum, because 'not one' could be taken to mean—"

"_Walter!"_

"I need my music, son."

The younger Bishop clenched his jaw, emotions displayed openly across his face even as he worked to control them. It was often this way, Walter realized. His son fought against many things. Always at war with himself. It was appropriate.

"Fine," said Peter grudgingly. "Just not Joplin."

"Scott?"

"Janis."

"Oh," said Walter, dejected.

He turned back to his work, and they continued in silence for several minutes. He looked up again.

"Son?"

"That's forty six, Walter."

"You do know that I love you, don't you?"

"Walter…"

"I need you to know it. Please tell me you know it."

Peter sighed. "I know it, Walter."

"And not just here," he tapped his head. "But in here." He tapped his heart.

"Yeah. I know that too."

The doors to the lab swung open and the women came in. And fittingly the morning sunshine fled, hiding her face behind a swath of clouds and taking any beams of light away with her. As if holding its breath and making a wish before blowing out a flickering candle, the last of the warmth in the lab was gone.

* * *

"I, um, I'm going to… um… milk Gene…"

And with that, Astrid Farnsworth turned and left the trio, her soft-soled shoes making no sound as she went.

Neither man had looked up as they'd entered the lab, and Olivia didn't find that entirely surprising. Peter was likely angry or hurting or both, Walter compromised. She had to give them credit for showing up at all.

It terrified her to realize that she loved them both. Deeply. Desperately.

"Hey," she said, her voice huskier than normal.

"Agent Dunham," said Walter, meeting her eyes for the first time. He had mustered a smile but his eyes were shining and he looked ready to break.

Naturally, Peter said nothing, and she steeled her resolve to look at him. Sunlight split and danced, moving like a 1920's movie house. She found it very hard to focus as the light refracted over and around his form, ghostlike. She forced herself to remember he was solid, real, human. Still the Peter Bishop who frustrated her to no end, who regularly pushed her outside of her comfort zone of preconception, who surprised her almost every day with glimpses into the workings of his own brilliant mind, who was always there to comfort or to challenge, whatever the hell she seemed to need at the time. Who could find her wherever and whenever she chose to run.

_Most people who cross dimensions, without your natural talent, are simply torn apart. _

"Peter," was all she said.

She saw him stop, breathe, frown. Saw a mask slip over his boyish features. When he looked up, his mouth was smiling. His eyes were not.

"Hey," he said.

"I'm sorry."

"S'okay. Drinking with girls is lame anyway."

"I need to talk to you."

Now some element of smile did creep into his eyes. He sat back on the stool. "Look, Olivia, it's really okay. I understand. You just…" He sighed. "You just could've said something, is all."

It was so hard to look at him, and yet, so hard not to. It was hypnotic, the way the light danced and shimmered. Too many flickering images, impossible for the brain to process. She realized she was staring and blinking. She wondered if her mouth was hanging open.

"What?" he said.

_You don't have to tell him. You don't have to say anything at all._

"Olivia?"

_Forget about it. No one will ever know. Some secrets are best left buried._

The light reflected, refracted, shimmered like old, old film…

Finally, she broke her gaze and turned to Walter. "I have to tell him."

The elder Bishop stood, and she also realized that Walter was preparing himself. Had likely been preparing himself for months now as the inevitability of his secret's escape became more and more imminent. For the first time in a long time, her heart broke for him as well. He had to have known what it would mean to reintroduce the drug _Cortexiphan_ into her system. He had to have known how it would end.

Perhaps, hers was not the only sacrifice.

"Tell me what?"

She looked back at him. He had folded his arms across his chest, waiting, patience growing thin. The light was dancing, her heart – her broken, dead heart – was racing, she didn't know what to say or where to begin.

He shook his head and rose to his feet. "Look, Olivia, I understand. You and Walter got some serious stuff going down and I get in the middle. That's okay. You just let me know when you're both ready –"

"You're glimmering."

There. She just said it. Just like that.

"What?"

"You're glimmering."

He blinked at her, shook his head, blinked again. The smile came back, cynical this time, pulled into one cheek like a rogue. "Right."

She pushed the hair out of her face, took a deep breath. "Just like the building in Manhattan before it got pulled to the other side. Glimmering. I could see it so plainly. It was so different, eerie, other worldly…" The words were running out of her now, impossible to stop. She felt terrified and yet free. And she let them hang, waiting for him to pick up on her implications. He surprised her again by laughing.

"Funny, Dunham. That's…that's funny. Hell of a way to dump a guy." But he had taken a step back from her, and she could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes.

She grabbed his arm, startling him. "No, Peter, listen to me. I know what I saw and I know what I'm seeing. I saw that building. It was shifting, shimmering with light. And last night, when I got to your house, you were shifting, shimmering with light. Just like that building. Just like you are now. Walter, tell him."

He glanced at his father. "Is paranoia a side effect of _Cortexiphan?"_

Walter took a step forward. "Peter…"

"Just, just, just... hang on a second." Peter shook off her hand, took another step back. "You guys are creeping me out here. I've tried to be patient. I've tried to understand, really I have. Jacksonville was hard on all of us, and I know you both have some serious issues to work through. I _do _know that. Really, I do. But… what has any of that got to do with me?"

"Peter, Agent Dunham is telling you the truth."

"Walter," the smile grew wider as the wheels spun harder. "Why on earth would I be glimmering?"

There was silence in the lab.

"What are you saying?" he snorted. "That _I'm_ from the other side? Is _that _what you're saying? Because Broyles is always accusing _me_ of conspiracy theories. I'm sure he'd love to hear this one…"

"Son," said Walter, voice level, emotionless, controlled. "Remember when you were a boy and you got so very sick?"

"No, Walter, I _don't_ remember it. I've told you that before. You said I had a rare disease, I almost died, you wanted to build a transporter to bring back some old dead scientist, but before you could, I got better. It went something like that, right?" Sarcasm now, a primitive defense mechanism. He could do better. He wasn't really trying. He wasn't taking them seriously.

"Yes son, that's what I said."

"And?"

Deep breath, collection of facial muscles. Forced calm. "I lied."

No hesitation. "Oh, now that's a surprise. Which part did you lie about? Did I not get sick? Or did you not build a transporter, or not try to bring back some old dead scientist? Or did you make up the whole story, Walter? Maybe I didn't have a dog named Rufus and maybe we didn't get saved by the bald guy in the river, either? Maybe my whole life is a lie. Tell me, Walter, what exactly am I supposed to believe here?"

"The whole story is true, Peter. Except that it didn't happen to you."

She could see the wheels screeching all over the map. His face was a river, flowing from emotion to emotion. She waited for his hands to come up, to spin and move and help him process. And sure enough, they did.

"What – you're saying that I had a brother? Some long lost brother that I never knew about? Why would you do that? Why would you - why would you not tell me?"

"No." Walter was trembling now, tears welling up behind his lashes. Olivia could only imagine what he was feeling. _"My_ son did get sick, but _my_ son did not get better."

Peter frowned now, eyes glued on his father, clearly not comprehending. He grew very very still, those wheels not so much spinning now as grinding, weeding out the chaff and settling on the wheat.

"Your son…" he said quietly. "_Your_… son…"

It took several more seconds, but she saw it when it happened. A flash of blue-green, a crossing of the forehead, a slight intake of breath. He cocked his head like a dog hearing a far-away whistle. A few seconds more, she could almost count them. She knew the expression. Then the smile, the relaxing of muscles, the real defense mechanism. She knew him at least that well.

"You're joking."

"Peter…"

"You didn't."

"Peter, please." Walter took another step forward. His chest was heaving. There was no mistaking his grief. A trembling hand came up to cup the side of Peter's face. "I loved you then so very much…I love you now, so very much. I need you to know that…"

The smile had disappeared now, and Olivia was quite certain it wasn't coming back anytime soon. Ever so slowly, the younger Bishop slid his eyes to look over at her. Tears were streaking down her own face in confirmation. He hated her then. She knew that like she knew her own name. He hated her as much as he hated his father. Ever so slowly, he reached up and removed the hand, lowering it and prying himself free. Taking first one, then yet another step backwards, then another. He glanced around the lab, at the plastered walls and rusting metal, at the shiny beakers and brightly-coloured wires, at the consoles and stations and burners and the cow, and finally at the two people who stood weeping before him.

He spun on his heel and in a heartbeat, he was gone.

_**End of Chapter 1**_


	2. Chapter 2

_Many apologies for the Portuguese - I'm Canadian! I do French! If anyone can help me with the next few chapters, I would be most appreciative._

**Gone**

_**Chapter 2**_

_3 months later_

Olivia Dunham wondered how anyone could work here, let alone live here. The walls of _St. Claire's Psychiatric Hospital _had likely been painted white at one time, but were now a shade of grey, which took on a slightly greenish hue under the fluorescent lighting. Some of the walls were intentionally painted green as well, and she wondered at the psychology of that. Perhaps green was intended to conjure up images of life, of plants and nature and healthy lifestyles, but here, in this foreboding environment, it succeeded only in conjuring up the ideas of sickness, bread mould and decay.

She decided she hated this place.

Dr. Sumner smiled at her as she signed herself in. He had been insufferably smug ever since Walter had returned, febrile and catatonic, several months ago and had never missed an opportunity for a mean-spirited remark or a well-placed insult. She took some small measure of satisfaction, however, in knowing that she now had power of attorney over his star patient, and could in fact sign him out if she wanted or needed to. After months of legal wrangling and Federal intervention, she was now Walter Bishop's legal guardian. She could visit at will, and she came at least twice a week. Astrid tried to come daily. It was the best they could do.

Accompanied by an armed guard who looked more military than orderly, she walked the halls, slowing only to be buzzed through iron-gated doors leading deeper and deeper into the heart of this place. She forced herself to remember that this was prison for the criminally insane, not a normal psychiatric hospital with cultured grounds and friendly staff. This was meant to contain madness. Rehabilitation was gravy.

The guard swung open a large heavy door into the community room and she cast her eyes across the sea of jumpsuits, pajamas and bathrobes until she found him. He sat alone, as usual. Even when he was surrounded by people, he was alone, locked in a prison of an entirely different sort. His hair was wild, his beard full. As she approached, she noticed the fingers of his left hand twitching, something she had seen infrequently during his time with the Fringe Division, and usually only when he was stressed or upset or skirting the edges of reason. It broke her heart every time, as it did now.

She pulled up a chair, a small orange plastic chair that would do minimal damage if hurled at a window or patient or guard. She tried to catch his eye, knew it was futile. He rarely made eye contact and if he did, it was fleeting at best. She touched his arm.

"Hey," she said.

Naturally, there was no response.

"So, I still haven't heard from Peter, but I'm sure he's fine. You know how resourceful he is."

No reaction whatsoever. When he'd first been admitted, the mere mention of Peter's name would cause Walter's deep-set eyes to light. His breathing would change. There would be some form of recognition. Now, she could have been saying 'baseball' or 'truck' or 'elephant.'

"He's probably back in Iraq. He really seems to like it there. All that sand and palm trees… and desert…" Not even a flicker. She sighed.

"Broyles sends his regards, as does Nina Sharp. We all miss you, you know." She smiled, wishing he could see. "You can come back to work anytime you want. Just say the word. As a matter of fact, we've got a case that would interest you. So, I'm just gonna bounce it off you if you don't mind. Get your opinion..."

Nothing.

"Good. Two planes landed this Thursday, just outside of Philadelphia, identical twin planes, both 737s, both **_Oceanic_** Flights 663 and both from London Heathrow…."

She studied his face for any sign that he was hearing her, but pressed on regardless.

"Even the passenger manifests are identical, right down to the luggage and a Borzoi hound in the baggage compartment. Identical planes, identical people. The first plane landed safely, the second crashed before hitting the tarmac. Forensics have determined that everyone on the second plane was already dead before impact. From what they can piece together, their organs ruptured almost simultaneously from within, and their connective tissues were shredded at a molecular level."

No response. Still she continued.

"So, I'm thinking that we have another event, another crossover from the other side, only the planes didn't fuse like the buildings did. The other one just followed. I remember William Bell saying something about how most people cannot cross over, that their bodies tear themselves apart. I'm wondering if that isn't what happened here, with our second plane? If not only the passengers, but the pilots, were torn apart when they entered our universe, causing the crash. Any thoughts?"

The fingers twitched, drummed the air, and she wondered if it was a pattern he was making, or a rhythm in his head. She smiled again, but sadly.

"Okay, well if you do have any ideas, you can call me or talk to Astrid when she comes tomorrow. Hmm, what else? Oh, we also found this strange slug in a storm drain in Beacon Hill…"

And she stayed with him for over an hour, talking, just rambling mostly, and wishing out loud for a life entirely different from the one she had now.

* * *

The Federal Building in Downtown Boston towered over its neighbours like a giraffe on the savannah, reflecting all manner of dark light across the skies. She had always thought it strange and slightly out of place, but lately, the phrase 'out of place' had come to take on new meaning for her. As she entered the building and flashed her ID to the guards at the front desk, she realized that in a very short time, this building had come to represent the closest thing she had to a home.

The office of the FBI's Fringe Division was traditionally manned by some 2 dozen agents all with varying degrees of experience and clearance. It occurred to her that she was one of the rookies in this department, having risen into leadership only because she had dared resurrect a connection with the 'mad scientist' known as Walter Bishop so many months ago. Only because of the mad circumstances of her childhood in Jacksonville so many years ago. Only because she had loved wrongly a man named John Scott and been drawn into this mad mad world of Fringe Science.

She even had an office.

She had just set her files down on her desk when her office phone buzzed. Broyles needed to see her. He was only one door away. And yet he buzzed.

She sighed and left the room.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Senior Special Agent Phillip Broyles did not look up. "Sit," was all he said.

She had no choice. She sat.

He was reviewing her files on the twin **_Oceanic_** Flights 663, stroking his forehead with a long finger. He did not seem pleased.

"Are you certain of this, Dunham?"

"Yes, sir. I saw the plane myself. It _is _from the other side."

"So we can expect one of our planes to disappear sometime soon?"

"If it hasn't already, then yes sir. I expect so."

He did look up now, but with his eyes, not his face. He was a striking man. Huge dark eyes, high gaunt cheekbones. She was glad he was on her side. "Did Bishop say anything?"

She made a face. "Ah, no sir. He's not really… talking…"

He stared at her for a long moment before pulling out another file from under the Philadelphia one, slid it over to her, all the while giving nothing away. He was the definition of inscrutable.

Olivia pulled it towards her, flipped the manila folder open to reveal traffic photos of a crowded street in what appeared to be a Central or South American city. There were riot police and yellow tape and protesters and a large convoy of black cars. She scanned it, half expecting to find a bald head in the crowd but nothing. She quickly flipped through the photos – all similar to the first. The same street, the same protest, just a progression of images as the cars wound their way into and out of the frames. It made no sense.

She looked up at her boss. "The protests in _Rio de Janeiro_ over the G20 summit. I saw this on the news last week."

"Look again."

She did as she was told and flipped through the photos once again. "It was just a typical protest. Happens every year. No one got hurt, no meetings disrupted, just normal organized social chaos…"

She stopped, squinted, bent closer for a better look. There, in the crowd, just walking away, head down, hands in pockets, while hundreds were protesting. Caught on the wrong street at the wrong time. Just his luck.

Just hers.

She glanced up at Broyles, the smile threatening to split her face.

"I'll get my coat."

_________________

It was very hot in _Rio de Janeiro_, even for one born and raised in _Jacksonville,_ Florida. So the moment she stepped off of the Federal aircraft into the air-conditioned Brazilian airport, she knew she had packed well. Just a single pair of black cargo pants and a few t-shirts. She wasn't going shopping. She wasn't going to the beach. She was going to find one man, hidden deep in the heart of an angry city.

Hair pulled back in a single pony, Glock strapped discreetly to one ankle, she made her way to the street imaged in the photographs. She was carrying a rucksack strung across her shoulder, and she pulled the photos from within, studied the direction of the cars, the crush of the protestors and the grainy profile of a man thought to be Peter Bishop, walking away from all that political madness. So, she set herself in exactly the same position as her target and began to walk.

She walked for a good hour through streets and side streets, past storefronts and ever-narrowing market stalls, knowing that he could have turned at any time but still she pressed on, trusting instinct to lead her where she needed to go. If _he_ could always find her, then maybe the magic worked both ways. She had found him in Baghdad once, with almost as little to go on.

The streets were packed with people, laughing people, smoking people, silent people leading lives of quiet joy and quieter desperation, until finally, something told her to stop. It was early evening, the sun was still visible over the roofs of the buildings but the shadows were long and the light a dark gold. She realized she was in a crowded low-rental residential district. Exactly where she was hoping to be.

She opened her rucksack again, pulled out a different set of photos this time and glanced around at the open-air stalls, most of which were still open this late in the day. Fruits, fresh and not-so-fresh, as well as sweet potatoes, tomatillos and yucca root were piled into pyramids along flagged windows and outside doorways. The first fruit stand was not helpful._ Never seen him, never would. _Neither the second. _Buy something or leave._ It occurred to her only in a small voice that she was attempting the impossible – finding one man in a city of eleven million. She shook her head. _What had she been thinking?_ There was no 'magic.' If Peter Bishop didn't want to be found, who was she to believe otherwise?

A heavy-set old woman was counting coins behind a counter, and Olivia hailed her in Portuguese.

"_Disculpe-me, Senhora."_

The woman eyed her before smiling. Most of her teeth were missing. _"Sim?"_

"_Voce viu este homem?"_ She passed the photos towards the woman, who took one glance and could not contain her toothless smile.

"_Olhos bonitos, sorrito bonito, bumbum bonito."_

Dunham laughed softly. _Nice eyes, nice smile, nice butt._ Yep, pretty much as good a description as one could hope for, especially in a place like this. Some things, like the speed of light, pi and lust, were universal constants.

The old woman nodded eagerly, ran her fingers along a ripe golden fruit. _"Gosta de minhas papaias..."_

Oh, I'm sure he does, Dunham thought to herself. "_Sera que ele mora por aqui?"_

"_Sim, eu acho que naquele prédio…"_ The woman gestured to a flat-roofed red brick building sandwiched in between two others that looked exactly the same. Dunham nodded, shoved the photos back in her rucksack and took a step away from the booth, but the toothless woman stopped her with a sharp _"Hey, garota, voce!"_

She turned in time to catch a papaya tossed through the air in her direction. The toothless woman was smiling again. _"Diga a ele, Gina diz oi."_

"I'll tell him," she grinned back, tossing the papaya a few times before slipping it into her bag and heading in the direction of the tenement. She marveled at the type of relationship that could have sparked such a warmth here in the heart of such a hard city. She had to admit that, for all his flaws, Peter Bishop was a remarkable man.

At least, Gina certainly seemed to think so.

* * *

The first door said _'Superintendente'_, a pretty easy translation even if she didn't know Portuguese. There were beer cans in a strangely neat tower lining the wall beside the door and she wondered if it was an attempt at urban art. People surprised her sometimes. At some point in her life, she had lost the wonder of that. She took a deep breath, mussed up her hair, licked her lips and shoved a stick of gum in her cheek.

She knocked on the door.

A large middle-aged man in a grimy undershirt opened the door, and she marveled again at the fact that all low-rent supers seemed to be cut from the same cloth. Whether New York, Boston or Rio de Janeiro, this was just another example of those universal constants. The speed of light, pi and grimy landlords. His dark eyes ran the length of her body and he leaned against the doorframe as if considering.

"Moca_ pequena,"_ he growled, smiling.

"Um, hi," she beamed. "I, um don't speak Spanish or Latino or anything, but um, I'm wondering if you can help me?" She cocked her head and batted her lashes and snapped her gum like a schoolgirl. She also marveled at the fact that she was so damn good at this. Rachel would have been mortified.

"Oh, sure. I can help you, _chica,"_ he breathed. She wanted to laugh. She could take him down twelve ways from Sunday. "What you want me to do for you?"

She tossed her hair. A better weapon than the Glock.

"So, like, I'm looking for this guy..." She dragged out the last word, made it go up at the end like a question, and debated pulling out the photos. No, the woman she was playing wouldn't have FBI photos. All she needed was her imagination. "He's, like, um six feet tall. Blue eyes. Scruffy beard. Americano, you know. I was told he lives in this building."

He raised the stub of a cigarettello to his lips, took a long drag, eyes still roving all over her body. "Maybe," he said, blowing the smoke out of the side of his mouth.

She leaned into him. "I met him at _Terra Encantada_ yesterday. He's, like, the friend of a friend of a friend, who thinks he lives in this neighbourhood. Gina at the fruit stand thinks he lives here…"

"Gina, hmm? Show me what you got and I tell you where your boyfriend lives."

"I have a papaya?"

"So do I. A big one…" He grinned and nodded at her chest.

Every instinct told her to shove the cigarettello into his face with the heel of her palm. Take him by the greasy hair and connect it violently with her knee. Elbow into the small of the back and drop him to the floor like the cockroach he was. Instead, she crossed her arms, grabbed the hem of her t-shirt and pulled it up to reveal her black sports bra.

Probably not the style he was hoping for. He swore at her in Portuguese.

"512. Bastard likes sixties' music," he snorted and slunk back into his room, closing the door behind him.

She whirled and headed for the stairs, fuming and fingers aching for her weapon and sincerely wondering if Peter Bishop was worth any of this.

* * *

While not an official part of FBI basic training, lock picking was a skill that was assumed of all agents in the Department. Some used their skills liberally, while others preferred staying within the bounds of the law. Olivia Dunham had always been one of the latter. She refused to be impressed when Bishop would regularly gain entrance to various apartments and homes and warehouses by nefarious means. But Charlie, her dearly loved and valued partner Charlie Francis, would take any excuse to try his hand at a door or two. Dear, departed Special Agent Charlie Francis had loved to pick a lock.

_Damn_ but she missed him.

The door to Apartment 512 was not especially tricky to pick, but then again, in this part of town, if someone had valuables, they were likely stolen or illegal and therefore, you'd be taking your life in your hands if you stole them. The poor had nothing to lose. The rich had examples to set.

When she stepped into the room, it was like stepping into a separate wing in the mind of Peter Bishop. She'd always known about his nomadic ways, his disability to stay at any one thing for longer than a few months, but to actually see it, to walk through the transience of a man's life, it began to connect the dots far faster than any lecture or analysis. The fear of putting down roots was more than psychological. With Peter it was probably _physio_logical. He really didn't, or couldn't, belong.

A small kitchenette with ancient square refrigerator, a few painted cabinets and a metal table with two chairs. A few dishes in the sink. Nothing on the walls save a clock that had long since stopped ticking. A sofa that obviously doubled as a bed, given the blanket and pillow bunched upon it. There was a book on the floor and she moved over to take a better look. It appeared to be a journal, so she picked it up and flipped it open. A journal, sure enough, written in ballpoint pen, calculus and ancient Greek.

She shook her head. That was a Bishop for you.

There were two other rooms both off this main, but cramped, living space. A bathroom which obviously served as laundry, as a few t-shirts and socks hung from the shower rail. There were some odd beakers in this sink, and powders of many colours still dusted the insides of the glass. Magnesium and potassium, copper and sulphur. It looked like a junior chemistry set, the kind kids get on their twelfth birthday from long-distant relatives.

She turned to the door of the second room, which would likely have been the bedroom if he hadn't a penchant for sleeping on couches. (Transience at its bachelor best.) There was a hum coming from this room, and she took a breath before opening the door.

It was a lab.

Wires and diodes, metal and glass, several computers connected to black components, with silver rings and tripods completing the set. All he needed was a turntable and a cow.

She moved into the room and cast her eyes across the workbench. There were notes scattered across the surface, crumpled into balls on the floor, stuffed to overflowing in the wastebasket. She picked one of the notes up but was instantly lost. It was mathematics at its purest form, a language all its own and she could not read a word of it. Calculations and equations that spoke volumes if you knew how to read. It reminded her of Walter and she was reminded of how similar they were. 50 points north of genius. The foothills of madness.

She heard the click of a latch and her heart leapt into her throat.

Peter Bishop was in the building.

_**End of Chapter 2 **_


	3. Chapter 3

_Many heartfelt thanks to **Paladinobr** for vetting my Portuguese!_

**Gone**

_**Chapter 3**_

It's funny how life goes. One day, you're in_ Boston_, wishing you could be somewhere else, and the next, you're in _Rio de Janeiro,_ suddenly wishing you'd never left. Everything was so different now, unexpected, unpredictable and therefore, terrifying. The 'Be Careful What You Wish For' Department was a big and scary place.

The door swung open and Peter let himself in, turning to close the door behind him. He was carrying a brown paper bag and as he placed it on the table and began to unpack it, she let her eyes absorb the sight of him. He looked like he was one beat behind himself, light refracting, deflecting, dancing, moving across him and him only. Even as he took each item out of the bag and placed it in the square fridge or on the counter, the light refracted off him and him only.

Otherworldly.

His scruff was fuller, his face harder, but it was still Peter, and she found tears had sprung into her eyes at the sight of him. He reached the last item, a small electronic component that meant absolutely nothing to her, placed it slowly, carefully on the table. He folded the paper bag just as slowly and very carefully along its creases. His back was to her and now he was taking his time, moving deliberately, and she could tell he was thinking. She knew he knew something was wrong. She knew he knew someone was watching.

She swallowed as he turned around.

He wasn't expecting that someone to be _her._

The initial shock of seeing her, standing between his bathroom and his lab was quickly replaced by anger and her heart broke at the transition. The wide eyes growing cold, the little-boy gasp turning into a hard straight line. The shoulders setting and firm. All barriers against her, walls springing up and defying her to breach them. She stepped into the light and smiled.

Better than hair, better than a Glock. It struck like an arrow and she saw the reflexive set of his jaw. Even with an IQ of 190, he was emotionally wired. It was his heart that drove him, rarely his head.

"Hey," she said.

His breathing changed, giving her the green light to step forward again, and yet again. He hadn't moved, hadn't even so much as twitched, his expression dark and warning, body coiled to run at a moment's notice. She saw his eyes flick toward the door, toward the window, then back to her, clearly not believing she was alone, but wanting to.

Her knees were shaking and she realized that the arrow hadn't struck him only. This was awkward, painful even, and she wished that she had kissed him that night, so long ago. It might have made things simpler now, for she would have been committed and he would have known that. As it was, she had no right to be standing here, asking for something even _she _didn't fully comprehend. She didn't know what she wanted. She didn't know why she was here. But at least she had found him. That had to count for something.

She was right in front of him now, this child of another world. She was honestly so happy to see him, to be with him, and she found her hand had reached out quite of its own accord, and brushed his. Somehow, she needed to touch him, to make certain that he wasn't merely a trick of the light. He didn't flinch but continued staring at her as if she could break him with a word, still marshaling all his defenses against her. She caught his fingers and wrapped them in her own. Brought their hands up chest-high, stretched her fingers and pressed her palm into his, marveling at the way the light moved between them. He surprised her by doing the same, and she realized it was a dance. His face impassive and hard, hardening even as he glared at her, but his body sending a message completely different. A tango. That's what this was. Not the 'dance of love' as so many called it, but the dance of anger, betrayal and love. She knew that instinctively but also realized that she didn't know how to dance.

She knew she was pushing it as she pulled up her other hand and he swallowed, fury and helplessness all at once, warning her to stay away, daring her to come closer. So closer she moved, her hand now rising to touch his face. Too much, too soon, as his own hand moved to catch her wrist. He took both wrists now and lowered them to her sides but for some reason, did not let go. Utterly conflicted, utterly at war. Still in one piece but 'torn apart', as Bell had said.

Yes, it broke her heart.

Finally he smiled but sadly.

"Hey," he said back, keeping her at a distance but keeping her nonetheless, and she let him. It was more than she had hoped for, far more than she deserved.

"So, um…_Rio de Janeiro, _huh?" she said, voice husky, a smile tugging into one cheek. "Do you have any idea how many people live in _Rio de Janeiro?"_

He shrugged, a glimmer of his former self. "That's the point. No normal person could find me."

"Hmm. You mean, no normal, un-_Cortexiphan_-enhanced, non-super-soldier type person?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

"And you thought _you _had baggage."

He released his grip on her, blinked once slowly. "It's good to see you, Olivia Dunham."

She smiled again. "It's good to see you, Peter Bishop." And she stepped away from him, giving him the space he thought he wanted, looking around his apartment like an inspector. "So, what do you do around here anyway, other than flirting with toothless old ladies and stealing fruit?"

Finally, neutral territory. They almost lived here. He visibly relaxed. "Ah Gina. Would you believe she's a millionaire heiress who likes to slum and sells fruit just for kicks?"

She scrunched up her nose and shook her head.

"Yeah. Me neither." He folded his arms across his chest, leaned back against the metal table. "Well, for one thing, I have a job…"

"Oh? Let me guess – Quantum physics professor at the _Federal University of Brazil?"_

"Ah, so close, and yet so far. Lab tech at _PUC-Rio."_

She pursed her lips, impressed. "Not bad. And what to do you at _PUC-Rio,_ other than steal the equipment?"

"Hey," he protested. "I didn't steal anything. I managed to convince the dean of science that his lab equipment was outdated. I presented him with a realistic and attainable plan for corporate funding and took the old junk off his hands…"

"Resourceful."

"Thanks."

Now she folded her arms across her chest. "And what are you doing with a lab in your bedroom?"

"Well," he began, and shifted his gaze, picked up the odd electronic component from the table, turned it over in his hand. "I am embracing the entrepreneurial spirit of _Rio de Janeiro_ with a thriving little home-based business…"

"Meaning?"

"Bootleg DVDs." He grinned at her. "Great quality. I can get you a copy of **Iron Man 2** if you'd like…"

"That's not even out."

"Exactly."

"Hmm. I didn't see any DVDs in there."

"Hidden. You know…"

"Can't be too careful."

"Right." Their eyes met, his daring her to call him on the lie, hers wishing he hadn't needed it in the first place. She knew what he was doing, what it looked like he had done, and it terrified her.

She sighed, smiled sadly. "Does it work?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "It does."

"Have you…?"

"Nah," he grinned again. "The papayas keep blowing up."

"Just like back at Harvard. Walter and his exploding fruit —" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them, for he winced as if struck.

"Yeah, that's right. I'm a regular chip of the old block."

"Peter…"

"Speaking of which, how is the old block doing anyway? Not that I care."

She stepped forward, desperate to regain lost ground. "Not good. He's back in St. Claire's."

"Good."

"Peter —"

"It's precisely where that sick son-of-a-bitch belongs."

"Peter, please. He loves you so much."

He held up the component. "You know what this is?"

"No."

"It's a remote." He turned it over and over in his hand, rolling it across the back of his fingers like a coin, all the while, his stare never leaving hers. "A remote control device to open a door wherever and whenever I want. Granted, it's a little unstable, but I'm working on it."

"Where did you get a power cell strong enough?"

"Would you believe Massive Dynamic has a field office at Copacabana Beach?"

She shook her head, feeling a sudden rush of overwhelming sadness. "Why do you need to do this?"

He shrugged. "There's no place like home, Dorothy. I need to know where I belong."

"Here. You belong right here. You're a part of _this_ world now."

"I wish that were true. But it's not, is it? Tell me," he cocked his head. "How long do you think you can look at me before you have to look away?"

"It's not…" She stopped herself. She had no idea, but she knew he would despise her if she lied, or tried to pretend he were anything other than what he was. "It's hard. You're right. Hard to focus. Hard to know where to focus. It's like watching a 3D movie without the glasses."

"Fantastic."

"Definitely unique."

"I am that."

"I'll come with you."

She was as shocked as he was when she said it, had not been prepared for those words to pop out of her mouth. Had not even considered it, but there it was, just like back at the lab in Boston. Perhaps the truth just wanted to be free.

"What?" He stared at her, brow furrowed. "What did you say?"

She took a deep breath, frowned as she began to work things out in her mind. "Well, when you do cross over, I'll come with you. I've already been there, so we both know I can. I know where William Bell is too, so maybe he could help if we needed him. And we can try to figure out why they are doing all of this, any of this. Why there is a war going on, and maybe, just maybe, we can figure out a way to stop it."

She looked up at him, green eyes serious and steady. "Yes, I need to come with you."

He continued to stare at her, as if seeing her for the first time, the conflicting emotions playing across his face so plainly. _Yes, definitely emotionally-wired._ Finally, he smiled, nodded, obviously confused, happily defeated.

"Okay, Dunham. You're on."

A shout broke the relative quiet of the evening in this part of lowtown Rio, and then another, and he glanced at her before crossing the floor to peer out the window at the street below. It was almost dark now, the sun all but blocked by the taller buildings of the neighbourhood. But there was movement down below, black vehicles pulling up, black-clad men rushing in, civilians sounding the alarm for any and all who needed to know.

Peter turned on her. "How could you—"

"_No,"_ she insisted, before he had even a chance to accuse. "No. That's not me!"

"Stupid! So _stupid!"_

"Peter, that's not from me! Broyles was the only one –"

He backpedaled to the table, snatched a jacket from over a chair, shoved the 'remote' into a deep pocket. He flung the door wide and shouting could be heard echoing up the stairwell. He bolted out, with Olivia Dunham hot on his heels.

* * *

The stairwell was very dark and very loud as boots echoed on old cracked tile. He had headed up, toward the roof, instinct and adrenaline telling him 'up' was the way to safety, but as he rounded one flight and caught the flash of movement of a black-clad soldier barreling down toward him from above, he wondered if his instinct was as unreliable now as the woman he had just left.

_Damn, but he was stupid. Why couldn't he learn?_

_"Lá embaixo!" _he shouted in Portuguese. _"Pessoas armadas!"_

The soldier didn't believe him, but the few seconds of hesitation it caused was enough. He'd always been fast, and his hand shot out even as the unusual rifle fired, catching the narrow tip and yanking the weapon out of the man's grip. He spun with the momentum, his other hand following suit, swinging and striking the side of the soldier's face with considerable force. Black cloth mask notwithstanding, inertia carried the rest of the body up and over the railing and onto the stairwell directly below.

Momentum, Inertia and Gravity. Physics was a bitch.

Another shape just above, the sound of shouting down below, the flicker of a thin red beam targeting the wall beside him, the railing, his chest—

A weapon fired immediately behind him and as he ducked for cover, he thought he recognized the sound. It was a Glock, 9mm, most likely Dunham's. He knew that sound intimately. She'd almost killed him with it several times. The shape above slumped and Olivia charged past him, grabbing a handful of t-shirt and hauling him after her as she went.

* * *

This was a seven-storey building, small by _Rio's_ urban standards, and they made it to the top without further incident, but the door was swinging on its hinges, banged about by the sucking, roaring blades of helicopters on the roof. Olivia darted out first, Glock pulled and steadied by her left hand. She swept the rooftop with her eyes, saw the first pilot grab his mike. _Good,_ that meant he had no one in his bay. The second chopper hadn't landed, rather was hovering twenty feet higher, silhouetted against the setting sun like a monstrous dragonfly, waiting for something to devour. She saw flashes of movement inside and knew they weren't clear.

She raised her weapon when Peter slipped out from the door and began to run.

"Peter, no!"

Figures dropping from the helicopter now, hitting the rooftop, making crunching sounds with their boots. She tried to lay down a cover, firing not at them but sending pebbles up in a wild spray at their feet. Flashes of yellow, a strange cracking sounds, bulky things whipping past her face. _Not bullets, but what?_

As if in slow motion, she turned, watched Peter sprinting across the rooftop like a Parkour pro, dodging the projectiles as if he'd done this all his life. And suddenly, something caught her attention, as a burst of light sprang into life on the next roof, one building over. It shimmered like water and danced with light, not much bigger than a man, and she knew what he had done and where he was going. So did the helicopters, as they began to lift from their positions and move out, their rotors raising dirt and debris with them as they went.

With a deep breath, she, like Peter Bishop, began to run.

* * *

It was only a matter of seconds before he was airborne, leaping off the stone carapace of the roof, suspended between heaven and earth and sunset, and he flailed his arms and kicked out his feet to improve his trajectory. It was all math, he knew. Angles and tangents, vectors and velocity. He may have been an underachieving ne'er-do-well failure as a kid, but at least he knew his math. He had calculated perfectly, and was about to hit the second rooftop, landing on his feet no less, in five seconds, now four, three, two –

Something hit him in the back.

He hit the surface of the rooftop very hard, coming down wrong and scraping palms, knees, chin and forehead in the process. He hadn't been expecting that. It had ruined his calculations and _dammit,_ he may have broken a bone. With a shake of his head, he pulled himself to his feet and bolted for the glowing 'door.' And fell back to his knees, surprised. His legs were growing numb. Cold and heat radiated from a distinct point in his back, between the shoulder blades, and he twisted to try and reach whatever was still there. His fingers were thick, slow. He felt very, very tired.

It was a dart, a tranquilizer most likely, and he dropped it to the ground. The doorway glowed ghostly white and he could see through it, to another rooftop just a few feet away, another rooftop where there were no helicopters, no soldiers, no betrayal.

Shouting behind him, rotors roaring over his head. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered toward the doorway, every muscle in his body telling him to stop, just lay down, sleep. Another hit, this time in the thigh, but he kept going, hand wrapping around the remote in his pocket, pulling it out. Just a few more steps. He'd sleep in just a few more steps…

It was like pulling a ton of gold bricks. Each step seemed a lifetime. The doorway glowed. His world beckoned. One last step, he was at the threshold, swaying in the night air, caught between two worlds, his last chance to go back, his only chance to go forward, until another hit sent him falling forward and through.

* * *

She'd seen it all, even as she ran. The soldiers had ignored her, obviously tasked with going after Peter and she wondered at that. Certainly not Broyles, but if not him, then whom?

Now it was her turn to leap into the sky, bridging the wide gap between buildings and praying she'd make it in one piece. She did, but not before a soldier dropped to the ground directly in front of the doorway. Weapon in hand, he took a step toward it, not sure what to do. Peter's body could be seen plainly on the other side, sprawled out and unmoving, so he lifted one black boot, ducked his head and went through.

"_No!!"_ she yelled, but it was too late. She skidded up to the doorway, watching in horror as the soldier took first one step, then another, then arched his back as if electrocuted. He writhed on his feet for several horrible moments, without even a sound coming from his open mouth, then dropped to the ground, dark liquid seeping from his mouth and eyes.

"_Agent Dunham, put down your weapon."_

She glanced up at the helicopter, hovering just meters above her head, whipping her hair into a frenzy and filling her eyes with grit. She looked back into the still-glowing doorway, at Peter's unmoving form, at the small black electronic device just inches from his hand. She looked back at the skyline now, _Rio de Janeiro_ at sunset. Beautiful, terrible. This side.

With a deep breath, she stepped through the threshold to the other side, picked up the remote and the blindingly, brilliantly, ghostly glowing doorway vanished and suddenly, finally, Olivia Dunham and Peter Bishop were gone.

_**End of Chapter 3**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Gone**

_**Chapter 4**_

Senior Special Agent Phillip Broyles stormed down the hall in the Federal Building, agents scattering out of his way like rice at a wedding. An aide was jogging behind him, not able to keep up in the least because of the man's incredibly long strides. The fact that he was 'storming' didn't help either.

He was barking orders, which the aide was furiously scribbling down on a Net book, precariously balanced in one hand. As they passed through the bullpen, Broyles didn't bother to look up, just _"Agent Farnsworth!"_ bellowed out over the din and continued on to his office. At her desk, Astrid's head snapped up, she gathered a few things, and trotted after him.

Broyles whirled and lowered himself into his chair, sending the aide a dark, dangerous look. The aide backpedaled and almost bumped into Astrid at the door. "Don't go in," he muttered. "Not if you _ever _want to come out…" And he was gone, leaving the Junior Agent standing, albeit nervously, in his stead.

"Close the door," growled the Senior Agent, and Astrid did as she was told. She was good that way. People needed stuff. She understood that. One of the reasons she did so well with Walter.

His phone rang and when he picked up, he was bristling for a fight.

"I did not sanction this action!" He snarled, dispensing with any pleasantries and looking for all the world like he would break the phone in half. "Agent Dunham was operating under my specific orders and no, Bishop has not gone rogue! No, she would have…Yes, I _do_ trust her…. Have you forgotten that _I _do not answer to _you_?"

Astrid tried to look somewhere else. Anywhere else.

"I don't care about the terms," he went on. "You've effectively ensured now that they cannot be met, no matter the circumstances, haven't you? And _that _will be on your head, not mine…"

She had a pencil with her. It was a Dickson HB. She studied the pencil. It was a lovely pencil.

"Dammit, these are _my_ people!" And he slammed the phone down on the shiny desktop and silence fell upon the office like a heavy cloak.

Astrid tried to grow very small. She had no idea what was going on, but something very serious from the sound of it. However, the words _"my people"_ from such a man made her feel strangely warm and protected.

"I need to talk to Dr. Bishop." Broyles wasn't looking at her. Instead, he seemed engrossed in a sheet of memos that had serious red letters stamped across each page. He seemed to be pretending he wasn't upset.

"Um," she rolled her eyes to the ceiling, tapping the pencil on her thigh, fidgeting a little in place. "Walter's not really talking to anyone…"

To her surprise, her superior released a long, deep breath. For some reason, he seemed to need it. Then, he waved a hand at one of the chairs in the room. "Please, Agent Farnsworth. Sit."

She did.

"Agent Olivia Dunham was sent to make contact with Peter Bishop yesterday."

She sat forward, posture perfect. "But we don't know where Peter is. Do we?"

"Peter Bishop is in _Rio de Janeiro._ Agent Dunham was sent to locate him, make contact if possible. But there was a situation…" He pronounced every syllable. Amazing.

"Oh?"

"She was being followed."

"Oh." She sat for a moment. She was a Junior Agent. She made coffee. She typed reports. She helped Walter with the lab and milked the cow and kept things running smoothly. But she was, after all, FBI. "Followed by whom?"

"A joint task force of Homeland Security and CIA."

"Wow."

"They attempted to retrieve Bishop by force. It did not go well."

Her dark eyes grew wide. "Are they okay?"

His dark eyes did not waver. "We don't know. They appear to be gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes." He arched a brow. "Gone."

"Oh…" She looked down at her pencil and swallowed. She knew what he was implying. She had seen so many things, too many things. She didn't know what was real anymore, or what to fear. The world was a scarier place now, but a bigger one too, and the man responsible for all that was trapped inside his own mind, which was also bigger and scarier than most, in a psychiatric facility on the outskirts of Boston and she missed him terribly.

But something Broyles had said struck her as odd and she looked up. "Why were the CIA and Homeland Security after Peter?"

He laced his fingers across his desk, weighing her in the balance of his eyes. He seemed to be wrestling with telling her something, something clearly very important. He cleared his throat.

"There have been terms…"

"Terms?"

"From the other side."

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

He sighed again. "During a war, there are sometimes… conditions, conditions that are presented to warrant a ceasefire, so to speak, or a truce. Terms of negotiation, terms of surrender, terms of reciprocity, and so forth."

"Uh huh?" She was completely out of her league.

"Peter Bishop was one of those terms."

"Peter."

"Yes."

"Peter was one of the… 'terms'… from the other side."

"Yes." He was staring at her. She should be understanding. She should be getting this. But she wasn't.

And suddenly, she did.

"Oh!" she gasped, hand flying to her mouth. "Oh!" And then again, "Oh…"

Broyles leaned forward. "And that is why I need to speak to Walter Bishop."

She understood now far too well.

* * *

It had been a mistake to cross Big Eddie.

He'd known it at the time, didn't particularly care overmuch. The guy was a two-bit hood with a crooked operation. He had won the money fair and square, to the tune of 80K. His system was good. It was the house that was bad.

His first 'warning' had landed him with three broken ribs, a fractured wrist and a mild concussion, not to mention several dents to one of Mako's loaner cars. Every muscle in his body had been bruised beyond belief, and he had spent a long night in a Boston back alley before being found by a drunk with a stolen cell phone who'd managed to pull the numbers '911' out of his inebriated brain, (simply because he'd been sober on Sept. 11, 2001 one of the few dates he'd ever remember.) He'd then spent another two nights in a Boston hospital under the name of Peter McQueen, before slipping out of the ward, and ultimately out of the country, without paying the bill.

He'd flown to Iraq under the identity of a Canadian journalist who'd gotten too close to the fighting. The attentions of the flight attendants had almost made the beating worthwhile, but truth be told, he had never felt so totally, utterly pounded as he had that night.

He felt that way now.

He rolled to sit on the edge of the bed, eyes blinking through massively heavy lids, trying to stop the room from spinning. His arms and legs still felt like lead, and as he tried to remember why, he also tried to remember where he was and how he got here.

He had been running for a door.

He cast his eyes around the room – it looked like his apartment in _Rio de Janeiro_, minus the lab equipment. Minus everything, actually. Save the bedframe and mattress, there was absolutely nothing in this room. He swiveled to look out the small window. Yep, same neighbourhood, late afternoon, high towers of downtown _Rio_ visible in the distance. Strange.

Suddenly, there was a flash and he was in the hall.

He turned, not sure how he'd gotten here, and he felt the world spin around him yet again. Reached out to brace himself against a plastered wall, that flash again and suddenly he was in the bathroom, vomiting into the sink.

His head hurt like the devil.

He reached forward to turn on the water, to splash his face and bring himself back to some semblance of reality, but the tap splurted and vomited its own contents into the sink, a brownish yellow fluid that could not possibly be water. It smelled like sulphur and he pulled away only to be assaulted by his own haggard reflection in the mirror, and Olivia Dunham standing directly behind.

He almost jumped out of his boots.

"Whoa, Dunham…" _WhoaDunham_ And she reached out with both arms to steady him as he reeled again. "What's going on?" _what'sgoingongoingon_

"C'mon. You need to sit back down." _sitbackdownsitbackdown_

She helped him out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, a blank empty imitation of his kitchen back in Rio. _But he _**was** _in Rio. It didn't make sense. And why was everything echoing? _She pulled up a chair, lowered him into it and he promptly dropped his head into his hands and groaned.

"I feel like crap." _feellikecrap_

"You look good, too." _goodtoo_ She bent down close to him, hands reaching for his forehead, his face. "Let me see your eyes..." _me see your eyes your eyes_

He made a face, swatted her away. "Stop it. You're reminding me of Walter—" _Walter Walter _

She dropped her hands to her knees, but smiled. "You'll feel better soon. Good morning, sunshine." _sunshine_

"Where are we?" The spinning seemed to be slowing, the bizarre hollow echoing diminishing, and when he lifted his head, it didn't threaten to blow off his shoulders. He let out a long, deep breath.

Dunham straightened and turned to the kitchen table, where the remnants of a papaya lay in a pulpy mess on the metal surface. She plucked at a blob, scooped it into her mouth and smiled.

"Mmm. Gina's right. That woman sure knows her papayas. Want some?"

It was all too bizarre, so he merely shook his head, stared and wondered if he was dead. This would be some wicked hell, trapped with a freakishly chipper Olivia Dunham and her echoing papayas in a tiny, abandoned hell kitchen in _Rio de Janeiro._

"You'll need to eat something, and well," she opened the fridge, promptly closed it. "All we've got is a papaya."

_Too bizarre._ "It looks kind of…mushy…"

"Uh huh. It blew up in my rucksack." She began rinsing out her bag now, running it under the slop that passed for water, dumping it out in the kitchen sink. "I think the papayas kept blowing up because they weren't from here. I've been conditioned, thanks to your father, and you... well, you know…"

Suddenly, it clicked and he leaned back in his chair and pushed his hands into his hair. His breathing began to quicken, quite of its own accord. _He'd done it. Goddammit, he'd finally really done it. _It was just a little overwhelming, and he got the feeling he was going to be sick again.

"So, are we…?"

"On the other side? Yes. We are. Welcome home."

"Whew. Wow. Oh-kay. Uh…Is it always this bad?"

Now as she turned to face him, she was the Olivia he knew, rational, composed and utterly competent, and he realized how much he needed her. _That,_ he corrected quickly. How much he needed that, those particular qualities, _in_ her.

"You were shot with three tranquilizers. You're lucky to be breathing."

"Oh yeah. Lucky me."

"Is time shifting?"

"Shifting?" _First the hall, then the bathroom._ "Yeah," he said. "At first. But not so much now."

"Good. That was the weirdest for me. First you're here, then you're there. I'm getting used to it."

He looked up at her, eyes serious and wide. "Am I still…?"

"Glimmering?" She frowned as she thought, then a small grin tugged into the corner of her cheek. "No. No you're not. Nothing is."

He sighed again, glanced around the tiny apartment. "But we're still in _Rio,_ right?"

She hung the rucksack upside down over the faucet, allowing the last few drops of water to drain out. "Yep. Still in _Rio._ I found a vacant apartment on the seventh floor, so I didn't have to drag you very far. You're surprisingly heavy. And I've gotten quite good at picking locks, I'll have you know."

He sat in silence for a few moments, as the implications began to set in. Finally, he sighed.

"You didn't need soldiers, Olivia."

"Peter," she swung around now, exasperated. "I didn't bring soldiers. I don't know who sent them. Not me, certainly not Broyles."

He glanced up, wanting to believe her, not ready to just yet. She folded her arms across her chest, scowling.

"So, what do you want to do? We're here. We're together. We might as well make a plan. What do you want to do?"

She sounded like his mother. _You can't just drop out of high school. What are you going to do with your life? What do you __**want**__ to do?_

It made him angry, which at the moment, was a good thing.

"I want to go to Boston. I want to meet my father." His eyes flashed. "My _real _father. I want to know…" His voice trailed off. In fact, he'd stopped it. He didn't want her to hear it break.

"What? You want to know what?" She was angry now. It unsettled him. She was supposed to be the cool one.

"Never mind. You wouldn't understand."

"Right. I never had a father. I had a stepfather that used to beat my mother to a pulp, whom I shot when I was just a little kid and I wish I'd killed him, and who still sends me cards on my birthday. But _I _wouldn't understand."

"It's not the same."

"No. Of course not."

"Okay, fine. I'm being selfish. For once in my pathetic life, I'm being selfish. Sue me."

_What had he said to Tyler Carson? Take a number, kid? Still pathetic._

"Is that it?" she said. "Is that all you've got? 'Cause I'm not impressed, yet. Not really."

"Dammit, Olivia! What if your real father was alive and you could find him?" He rose to his feet now, the room still spinning but allowing the building fury to catch and keep him. "What if all it took was a few wires and some math and you could find him and ask him all the things you wanted to ask when you were a kid growing up? Maybe he could make up for all the crap you'd been through, all the reasons you're as messed up as you are, all the mistakes you'd made. Maybe you could start a different life, one that wasn't full of disappointment and confusion and hurt, and maybe your mom would still be alive and your dad wouldn't be crazy and maybe, he could just…" _Dammit -_ tears threatening - _plow them under, push ahead. _"...just love you for who you are, and not wish you were someone that you weren't…"

He felt tired now, so very tired, and he told himself it was the remnants of the tranquilizers. He turned away now, tried to walk back to the bathroom but couldn't move. He realized he was shaking. Pathetic.

There was a hand on his arm. He didn't turn around.

"I'm sorry," was all she said.

He shook his head and sighed. "It's not your fault, Olivia. I guess I've got a few issues with Walter too."

"Really? I hadn't noticed."

He found himself grinning, despite himself.

"I have $179 dollars in my rucksack." Her voice was deep, soothing. He loved the sound of it. "True, it's covered in mushy papaya, but I think it might wash off."

An exhausted laugh escaped him. This was too bizarre. He felt her press in behind him, wrap her arms around his waist, lean her head against his back. Bizarre or not, it felt good.

"We could go to the US Embassy. Provided there's one here in 'alter-_Rio."_

"And do what?" he asked, glad to finally be talking like a normal person.

"Well, I think there is an Olivia Dunham here, in this world."

"Yeah? I bet she's not as scrappy."

"Don't count on it. I could pretend to be her, call for a Federal plane, get us shipped back to Boston on Government coin."

"You think she'd be FBI?"

"I was in Broyles office, on_ this_ side, back when we were investigating Susan Pratt's case. He knew me. So I'm guessing yes."

"Too dangerous."

"Alright. _You're_ the genius. What's your plan?"

"$179, huh?" He thought for a long moment. "Do you have anything else in that rucksack?"

"Like what?" She made a funny face, not comprehending, but judging from his tone, he had an idea.

He turned to her, brow raised, grin tugging into one cheek like a rogue.

"Like a little black dress?"

And Olivia Dunham closed her eyes, knowing now but not wanting to know, what he had in mind.

_**End of Chapter 4**_


	5. Chapter 5

_You had to know they were hitting the Casinos sometime, didn't you...?_

**Gone**

_**Chapter 5**_

In the underground market of _Rio de Janeiro_, $179.00 bought not only a knock-off _Reem Akra _'little black dress', but a fake charcoal Armani suit jacket, coordinating pants _and_ a black faux _Prada _shirt, leaving them with $100 to play with. They would need that to buy in. With a fine woman on his arm and aviator sunglasses over his eyes, Peter Bishop felt on top of his game. Now all he had to do was prove it.

They neared the nightclub around midnight.

"I thought gambling was illegal in Brazil," she asked, as she leaned on his arm and narrowed her eyes. The activity in this district was loud and wild. She didn't trust any of it.

"_Legalized_ gambling is illegal," he grinned back. "In our world, at any rate. It may be different over here."

She turned her face to him. _"Our_ world?" she said slowly.

"_Your_ world, I mean." He looked straight ahead, avoiding her gaze and suddenly feeling like a tourist.

"And you have the Glock. How do you think we're going to get into any establishment with a weapon strapped to your ankle"

Now he did look at her, eyes shining. "With the way you look in that dress, I doubt anyone is gonna be looking at me."

To his surprise, she didn't have a smart comeback. She just looked away and smiled. But if he wasn't mistaken, she leaned against his arm just a little bit more.

A big, bearded man stood between them and the flashing lights of a steel door.

"Hey, Alvaro!" Peter smiled at the man, thumped him on the arm.

The man stared at him.

"It's me, Pedro! From the Copa!"

"_Nao, sei-o,_ 'Pedro'._ Bracos, para cima."_

"Right," said Peter, glancing at Dunham sheepishly as he raised his arms. _"Your_ world."

The man began to pat down the chest and shoulders, arms and pockets of the Armani jacket. Naturally, there was a bulge. He nodded, and Peter fished out the 'remote', held it up to his ear.

"_Telefone."_

"Yah. Okay." He reached his hands down to Peter's hips, down the legs, down toward the ankles…

"My turn," Olivia interrupted, gliding forward and spinning on her heels like a model. She swung her hair and smiled for the man and Peter found it hard to take his eyes off her. Fortunately, the bouncer was thinking the same. In that dress, there was little hidden.

"_Sua bolsa, por favor,"_ he grunted, so she opened her purse, a shiny black faux-_Coach _number that the sales clerk had thrown in for good measure. He nodded, stepped aside allowing them access to the door and the flashing pounding heartbeat of the club.

Through the crowds they wove, people pushing in from all directions, but what surprised Olivia most was the fact that this was not a lowbrow establishment. From hair to clothing, from jewelry to drinks, everything here was first rate and very, very expensive. The music was a mix of European technopop and Salsa, and there were as many pale faces as dark. Underground nightlife for rich tourists, she surmised. Money flowed freely in this place, and she suspected that this was not the only place like this in _Rio._ Law or no law, people still did what they wanted.

And suddenly she realized that people were people, no matter which side of the universe they were from.

Peter was exchanging the last of the money for chips. She had a really bad feeling about this, but to tell the truth, they needed money. She had been surprised that the dress shop had accepted her cash. She'd seen a silver dollar once with Richard Nixon's face on it. From_ this_ side. Different choices. She wondered what the US would have been like if JFK had lived, if Nixon had not been 'a crook', if the twin towers still stood.

What a different world it would be.

"Having fun yet?"

It was Peter from over her shoulder, so she narrowed her eyes and scowled at the crowds. "I miss my gun."

"I always knew you were the romantic one." He reached around to drop $50 dollars worth of chips in her hand. "They play in American dollars. So which would you prefer? Blackjack or poker?"

"What? I thought _you_ were playing."

"I am. But of all the girls I know, I bet you'd clean up at the tables. And two sharks are better than one."

"I'm not a shark."

"You memorize cards. That qualifies you as a shark."

"I – I've never…"

"New universe. New rules. C'mon. Let me show you the ropes…"

He took her elbow and ushered her in through one dark door after another, before leaving her at a blackjack table and disappearing like a Cheshire cat into the crowds. She took a deep breath, squeezed the chips in her palm, and took her seat.

There is a bald man at the bar. He has no eyebrows, but he likes the Quentao. With extra lime.

* * *

Three hours later, she found him, the last of two men sitting at what looked to be a very high stakes poker table. The _Armani_ jacket was across the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and yet he looked as cool as a proverbial cucumber. The chips were stacked on both sides, his opponent a very thin white haired gentleman with more gold chains than the A-team, and a cigar.

The dealer was deadpan, but she could tell he was enjoying this immensely.

"Peter…"

"Yeah, just a minute…"

She leaned into him, hair swinging long across her back.

"We're good. Wrap it up."

He waved her off. "Yeah, yeah, one more hand."

The white-haired gentleman smiled at her, put his cigar between his lips. She knew the smile well. She turned her back to him.

"Peter, I won $8000. We 're good."

His eyes had not left his cards. "Yeah, that's great. I got 72 on the line here, sweetheart. Just take a seat and let me finish…"

She froze for a moment.

Looked at the dealer, who was trying not to show any emotion and concentrating on the cards he was dealing.

Threw a glance at the white-haired gentleman. He was grinning at her.

Turned back to Peter.

"What did you just call me?"

Something in her tone caused Peter to pause, to swallow. He managed to tear his eyes away from his hand. "Uh, I … I just meant…."

She stared at him.

He turned to the dealer and smiled. "Colour me up, _por favor."_

"_Sim, senhor."_

The white-haired gentleman puffed his cigar. "You're whipped, boy. Totally whipped."

"That I am, my friend," said Bishop, nodding and gathering his armful of chips. "That I am."

Together, they cashed out and struck out into the bright _Rio de Janeiro_ night.

* * *

She would never tell him that she was impressed. It would remain her secret. He had won $36,000 in three hours (which might have been $72,000 if she'd let him finish his hand), led her straight to an equally dark neon establishment where they left most of their cash in exchange for two false passports, and had booked two return tickets from Rio to New York, 'return' being far less suspicious. As they entered the abandoned South Side apartment, she wondered if he wouldn't do just fine here, on this side of the universe, if he decided to stay.

That, she decided, would be her loss.

They sat with their backs against they apartment's peeling walls, finishing the last of the pork 'feijoada-to-go' with plastic forks, and washing it down with a few bottles of Brahma Black. It was very early in the morning and they had 8 hours before their flight to New York. Sleep wasn't much of an option, so they changed back into street clothes, packed everything they currently possessed (which consisted of the afore-mentioned _Reem Akra, Armani _and_ Prada_ knock-offs, a trans-dimensional remote and some gum) into Dunham's rucksack and indulged in a street-corner fast food version of Brazil's national dish.

"It's just wrong," he grumbled again, after swallowing a mouthful of beer. "I mean, I love some of the designs here – did you see that _Bugatti Veyron? _Talk about sweet! - But really, double-decker cars? That's just wrong."

"There are guards on every street corner. I've never seen weapons like those…"

"Who in their right mind would buy a double-decker car?"

"And all the trees are brown." Olivia sighed, waggled her bottle with two fingers between her knees. "Why are all the trees brown?"

"I thought I saw some green ones…"

"Fake."

"Ah yes." He took another swig. "Fake trees. Good for the tourist trade. Right next to the machine guns and double-decker cars."

And after a few moments of silence, Olivia Dunham started to laugh.

Peter looked at her.

It started off small, but very quickly began to shake her whole body, and as is the way with laughter, it was contagious, and soon, the both of them were laughing until tears rolled down their cheeks.

"I'm sitting…on the floor…," she began through her laughter, putting a palm to her forehead, "…of an abandoned apartment…in _Rio de Janeiro_…where they have fake trees…with the kidnapped son…of a mad scientist…"

"In an alternate universe," he added.

"In an alternate universe," she added. "…Drinking beer." She pursed her lips and shook her head. "Just another day in the life of Olivia Dunham."

He grinned at her. "At least there are no man-eating slugs."

"At least there are no man-eating slugs." She raised her beer bottle. "Here's to life in the Fringe Division."

He thought about that a moment before raising his own bottle. "Here's to Fringe."

They clinked, and the sun came up over the roofs of the city.

* * *

The door buzzed and Broyles looked up.

Two guards, then a man in prison orange, then two more guards. There were chains everywhere.

"I don't need to remind you that he is completely insane, Agent Broyles," hissed Dr. Sumner. "Completely insane. I have lodged a complaint—"

"_Senior Special Agent_ Broyles," said Broyles, his voice low and controlled. "Or Colonel, if you wish."

Sumner glared at him, gave a little snort, then turned with a key to unlock the chains that bound Walter Bishop's hands to his feet. Walter's lips were moving, but there were no words.

Astrid was at his side in a heartbeat.

"It's okay, Walter. We're leaving now. We're going back to the lab. It's gonna be okay." She looked up at Sumner. "Can I have his clothes?"

From one guard to the next, to Sumner then to the Junior Agent, a paper bag with paper handles was passed over and Astrid peeked inside. "Good, we've got your sweater, Walter. Everything's gonna be okay now. I've got your favourite sweater."

She slipped it over his shoulders and took her place at his elbow.

It wasn't so much walking as shuffling, propelling Walter in the desired direction and holding his arms to prevent him from stopping, falling or wandering in the wrong direction. The fingers of both hands danced now, his eyes glassy and unfocused, beard and hair wild and uncared for. Not the Walter Bishop she had come to know and love, the man who would regularly don a three-piece suit for a jaunt into Chinatown, or a fancy dinner at a Chucky Cheese. She would see to it that he was fixed up and soon.

So accompanied by two fellow agents, Senior Special Agent Broyles, Junior Agent Astrid Farnsworth and Doctor Walter Bishop turned their backs on Sumner, the guards and the Maximum Security ward of _'s Psychiatric Hospital,_ and drove off into the Boston fog of morning.

There is a bald man watching them go.

* * *

The Glock was bound to be a problem. Federal law allowed most government security officers to carry their weapons on flights within the continental US, but for international flights, special paperwork was needed. Back in Boston, Peter knew a guy who knew a guy, but here, on the other side, they were very much alone. Olivia decided on the direct approach.

She would be using her real passport.

She bypassed the huge line-up at _Rio de Janeiro-Galeao International Airport_ and marched straight to security, Peter trotting dutifully at her heels. There were guards with visors and armor and automatic rifles of a make that Peter didn't recognize. He could swear they were watching him, could feel their visored eyes boring into his back as if he were a deer the day before hunting season.

Olivia flashed her ID. "Olivia Dunham, FBI. I am returning to New York with a friend and will be carrying my weapon onboard. Are we gonna have any problems with that?"

The two at the desk glanced at her ID, then at each other. Two more armed guards came over, hoisting their rifles a little higher. Peter smiled at them.

"_Um momento, senhora,"_ said the agent at the desk, and reached for her phone.

Within minutes, they were in a back room, being questioned by a tall balding Brazilian wearing a shirt, tie and flack vest. It was a small room with opaque glass walls, a metal table, no chairs. He turned and put his hands on his hips.

"My name is Braulio Rojaz, Head of Security for _Galeao/Infraero_ Corp. You are an agent with the United States Government?"

"Olivia Dunham, FBI, 7-18-622-79." She handed over her ID and passport. The Glock was apparently staying with her. "Federal Bureau of Investigations."

"This is most irregular," he said. "You have not the appropriate forms."

"I wasn't expecting to leave so suddenly," she answered, and Peter was impressed at how well she lied. "I flew in on a Federal transport two days ago. You can call and verify my ID with my office in Boston."

"And why did you purchase a round trip ticket, _senhora?_ Are you planning on returning to _Rio?"_

"I'm not at liberty to say."

He waggled her passport and ID in his hand, all the while never looking away from her. Peter, on the other hand, was trying to look anywhere but. She scared him sometimes.

"And him? This Monsieur Pierre L'eveque? Who is he to you, _senhora _Special Agent Dun-ham?"

She threw Peter a glance. He smiled, blinked slowly. She turned back to the agent.

"My new boyfriend. I'm bringing him home to meet my mother. My ID is verifiable with one simple phone call." She folded her arms across her chest and smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "I'll wait."

Within twenty minutes, they were onboard in First Class Seating, Glock safely strapped to her ankle, home.

As the rest of the passengers were boarding, Peter tossed back a handful of peanuts and grinned at her

"So, what if this world's Special Agent Olivia Dunham had a different ID number? Or the FBI office in Boston was closed down, or something? Not answering their phones? You took a big risk back there, Dunham, you know that?" His eyes were dancing as he stared at her and chewed.

She shrugged, looked straight ahead, but couldn't stop the corners of her mouth twitching upwards, just a little.

"New universe, new rules. Now stop talking and let me get some sleep."

Still munching, still grinning, Peter slouched down in his seat and gazed out the window, not sure if he'd ever see _Rio de Janeiro_ again. In this world, or the next.

* * *

"Broyles," he said into the telephone. He was not really paying attention. There had been another riot in downtown Boston, and his team had been called in to help. Technically, Fringe was a Division of Homeland Security but the FBI still liked to think they called the shots.

"She what? Olivia Dunham? When?" He leaned into the phone, paying attention now, his eyes dark and glittering. "Are you certain of this?"

He rose to his feet, still holding the phone, looked out the glass wall behind his desk, overlooking the bullpen. "Is she traveling alone?"

Two agents hovering over a computer, one typing, one gesturing at the screen. One a slim, dark-haired man with equally dark eyes and a scar in the shape of a sickle across his cheek. The other a steely young woman in a conservative grey suit and a fall of blond hair.

His people.

"What was that name? 'Pierre L'eveque' You are certain of this? Do we have a photo?" He turned back to his office. "Fax it to me immediately."

He hung up, he sat back down, closed all the folders, laced his fingers across his desk and waited.

When the fax came through, he picked up the phone again.

"It's me," he said to the voice on the other end. "Your information was correct. Peter Bishop has crossed over. And he's brought your Olivia Dunham with him."

_**End of Chapter 5**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Gone**

_**Chapter 6**_

The lab had been closed up, much the same way it had been once before. Heavy canvas sheets draped across the equipment, all doors and cabinets locked tight. Gene had been sent off campus to be cared for by a friend of Astrid's who owned a hobby farm in Allandale. The sunlight streamed into the windows, slicing the dust in triangular wedges. It was very quiet as they entered the room.

"Look, Walter, it's the lab. You're home, now, see?" The Junior Agent rubbed the older man's shoulders, as if she could rub life back into them. Naturally, there was no response.

Broyles sighed. "Are you sure this is going to work, Agent Farnsworth?"

"No," she said, looking at him with big dark eyes. "But I remember Peter was always talking about how he needed things to jog his memory. Foods, places, smells, things like that. And then there was his music…Oh! _Music!"_

She bolted off up the steps in the lab and disappeared from sight, leaving Broyles with Walter alone. The Senior Agent studied the doctor. His hair had been combed, his face now clean-shaven, and he was wearing drab brown clothing instead of psychiatric orange. But the fingers were still moving, the lips uttering silent words, and Broyles wondered if any of this was going to help. The man was clearly insane. Had been before, most certainly, but now, given the circumstances, it appeared there was no way back.

And suddenly the room was filled with music.

It was R&B, a shuffling bass line with a rolling piano riff. It was also likely very old, given the crackling, popping underneath the melody and it seemed to suit the sunny, dusty lab in a way no other soundtrack could. It was old and wise, cynical but tenacious, the music of deep heartache and dogged good humour and of a spirit that would never ever give up.

Astrid came down the steps slowly, her slim hips swaying ever so slightly to the beat, and Broyles wondered at the good times, when this lab was likely full of music. Dunham had frequently talked about it. Everything from Bach to Cream, from T-Bone Walker to Hendrix. There was even a baby Grand Piano here, somewhere under a tarp. He shook his head.

"Walter, do you remember this?" Astrid was right in front of him now. She laced her fingers in his, pulled them up like a little girl wanting a dance from her grandfather. Broyles half-expected her to step on his shoes. "Come on, Walter. Who is this? What is this song?"

Nothing.

"I know you're in there, Walter. You're just scared and angry, I know…"

"Agent Farnsworth," said Broyles. He was about done. _Massive Dynamic_ was in the wings, waiting for their shot. They would get results. Nina always did.

"Peter needs your help, Walter. So does Olivia. C'mon, Walter. You can do it…"

The lips moving, wordless, soundless…

"Agent Farnsworth, we don't have time for this."

"No, no sir. Please. Walter, tell him that you're here. That you know what's going on. That you just need a little time."

Broyles turned to the two agents standing at the door, nodded. They began moving forward.

"Walter please," Astrid's voice was getting higher in desperation. "Tell me what the name of this song is…Please Walter, tell me…"

Lips moving…

The men took each of Walter's arms, pulled him out of Astrid's grasp.

"Wait? What did you say?"

"Agent Farnsworth! That's enough." Broyles shot her an angry look. It normally sent people fleeing for cover.

"No, sir! You need to stop them right now!" She was engrossed in this man, her eyes dancing as she stepped even closer, unmindful now of her superior officer or his goons. "Tell me again, Walter. Say it out loud."

The lips moved. Broyles stepped forward now.

"Louder, Walter. I need to hear you say it."

"…gone…"

"What's that?"

"'_Long Gone'…"_

Broyles frowned.

Walter's deep-set eyes blinked, then blinked again. He was still glassy-eyed and unfocused, but he was blinking. His voice was but a whisper.

"'_Long Gone'_… by…by Sonny Thompson…"

Astrid was beaming. "That's right, Walter. _'Long Gone,'_ by Sonny Thompson. You taught me the bass line to that, remember? On the piano."

"It made number 2 on the charts in…in 1948…He was with…with…"

"Yes, yes, go on."

"With Miracle Records, I believe…"

"Yes, Walter. Good job."

"What day is this?"

"Wednesday."

"Forgive me. What is the date?"

"May 19."

He looked at her.

"What year?" And more forcefully. "What _year?!"_

"Um, 2010."

"May 19, 2010?"

Now she glanced at Broyles, before turning her attention back to Walter. "Yes, Walter. Why?"

He cast his eyes down to the floor and around, as if the spinning world was suddenly coming into focus, and he was at the very center of it.

Broyles leaned in. "Dr. Bishop?"

Walter let out a long deep breath and looked up. "I need to speak to Nina Sharp."

* * *

He watched them in the airport as they left security to rent a car. They looked like they'd been arguing and you'd never knew they were from anywhere else. In fact, she looked completely the same, even did her hair the same way in that conservative ponytail that always made him crazy. Sometimes at night, she'd pull it out and shake her head just to tease him, but always put it back during the day, at work. All business.

He loved her like crazy.

He watched them as they walked to their rent-a-car, a black SUV. _Of course. _She'd done the choosing. He wondered what the man would have chosen if she had given him the chance, and wondered if they were lovers. He'd never been given that piece of information. For some reason, that made him angry. He had his own, but still, that made him angry.

In his own vehicle now, and he followed at a distance. He knew where they were going because of the route they were taking and because it made sense. He called it in, and was ordered to hang back. He would have loved to talk to her, to see just how similar they were, if she knew him over there, if she loved him. He would have loved to take 'that man' out just for being with her, work him over just a little, break a bone or two, but that would have gotten him killed. Everything revolved around 'that man' now, and it irked him. All of this, because of 'that man.'

He wasn't worth it. No one was.

Maybe her.

But he obeyed his orders, because that's what he did, and he was the best at what he did. She didn't know the half of it. Hopefully, she never would.

He watched them slip out of range as another car took over. He had other business to take care of anyway. But he was glad for the chance to see her and hoped their paths would cross again soon.

He would have liked that very much.

___________________

As she pulled over to the side of the street, she glanced over at him. He had been very quiet on the ride into the city, and was staring out the passenger side window, fingers tapping out an agitated rhythm on the door.

She sighed.

"Look, I know you're angry…"

"Got that straight."

"Look, we're here, now. There's no point in driving to Boston, then driving back here again. It's a good 4 hour drive—"

"3 ½."

"If you drive like you do, sure. But we're already in New York. Let's check out _Massive Dynamic,_ and the World Trade Center. See if William Bell really is here. Then we can head straight to Boston. I promise."

He looked at her, muscles in his jaw working overtime. "Fine," he said after a moment. "And what do you suggest we do at _Massive Dynamic?_ Walk right in and ask to speak to someone in charge of Interdimensional Warfare?"

"No," she said slowly, for truth be told, she really had no idea. "But I'd like to speak to Nina Sharp if she's there. Or William Bell. Ours _or _theirs."

"You mean, yours or mine."

"Peter…"

"Right, let's get at 'er, then." And he stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind him. She sighed and followed.

_Massive Dynamic_ was, indeed, a massive structure. Similar to the _Guggenheim_ or the Canadian ROM in modern concept and design, the building itself looked like it had been dropped onto the sidewalk by a spacecraft from another galaxy, with its angled lines and sharp edges, a glass and steel monument to technology at its best. It was visible from a good way down the street. As they pushed through the crowded sidewalk toward it, a long black car pulled up in front of the main entrance, and several dark-suited men filed out of the building. They approached the car and waited.

Olivia slipped a hand out to grab Peter's sleeve, and together, they watched a man step out of the car. He was medium height, medium build, and was dressed in a fine dark overcoat, black gloves. Wavy brown hair, gray at the temples, wide mouth, deep-set eyes…

She felt the world skid to a halt, and realized that beside her, Peter was holding his breath.

Doctor Walter Bishop cast his eyes around the street before heading through the crowds into the building, the dark-suited men falling in around him like a Secret Service team. And then they were gone, disappearing into the lobby of _Massive Dynamic,_ and the crowded sidewalk resumed its current, to and fro, as if nothing at all had happened.

"Okay, we need to think—"

She turned but Peter was already on the move, striding toward the building like a man with a purpose. She bolted after him, grabbing his arm and swinging him into the storefront of one of the neighbouring offices.

"What the hell? Olivia?!"

"No, Peter! _No!"_ She held up a finger in his face. "That is _not_ the way we are going to do this."

"But that's—"

"I know."

"But I need to—"

"And you will, but not here. Not now. Not like this."

He looked like a little boy, confused and conflicted and very, very lost, as he glanced from _Massive Dynamic_ to her and then back again.

"But…"

"You need to trust me on this, Peter. Please."

He swallowed, glanced at the lobby again, and when he finally nodded, she felt a huge weight settle onto her shoulders. He was trusting her with this. He was giving it all to her, his hopes, his nightmares, his future. This could go bad so many ways. It really should have terrified her.

But then again, nothing much frightened her anymore.

"Okay. C'mon." She grabbed his arm again. "We need to find William Bell."

And as they pushed their way back through the crowded sidewalk toward their rental car, they failed to notice the bald headed man watching them go.

* * *

The World Trade Center buildings towered over the Financial District of _Manhatan_, twin daggers thrust into the heart of the sun. Tall, white and symmetrical, they were visually beautiful because they were two. That was the simple power of their design. In fact, as she stood there, on the sidewalk looking up at them, she felt an indescribable urge to weep.

She took a deep breath.

"Okay," she said to Peter. "I was waiting for Nina Sharp at the Mitsumi Hotel on Broadway, but she didn't show, so I left and took the elevator down…" She frowned, trying to piece together how it had happened. "It was at the 13th floor that things changed…"

"Most hotels don't have 13th floors," muttered Peter, hands in pockets, as he stared up at the towers. He seemed distracted.

"I know. But then, the elevator was empty, then full, then empty again… and suddenly I was on the 108th floor of the South Tower, in William Bell's office…"

Slowly, he looked at her. He was trying to focus. She could see those wheels spinning behind his eyes, affecting everything. "So are we supposed to go to the 108th floor here, or the 13th floor of the Mitsumi?"

"Um, well, here." She made a face. "Why not?"

He shrugged.

"Then Boston, okay?"

"Sure. Whatever."

She sighed. "C'mon. Let's just see where this takes us."

And together, they crossed the square and into the beautiful lobby of the World Trade Center's South Tower. Not surprisingly, there were armed guards everywhere.

She flashed her ID at one of them.

"Olivia Dunham, Peter Bishop, FBI. We need access to the 108th floor."

"That's off limits, ma'am," said the guard. "Mechanical mainframe."

"We're not going to touch anything. We just need access."

"You'll need a special access pass from Area Supervisor McMillan."

"And where is Area Supervisor McMillan?"

"City Hall, ma'am."

She nodded, smiled, swung around to glance at her companion. "Peter, you hungry?"

"What?"

He was still distracted, wrestling with dark and twisting thoughts of his own. Sometimes he reminded her of Walter. Too much going on inside his head. That's why he ran, she realized. Constant motion deferred the whirlwind of hyperkinetic thinking. But right now, it wasn't helpful, and _dammit_, she needed him sharp.

She swung back to the guard. "Well, _I'm_ hungry and, seeing as how we don't have a special access pass, maybe we'll just go for lunch at the food court. Maybe catch a movie afterwards, you know, on the 10_**7**__**t****h**_ floor and all…"

Her smile this time was brilliant, and she slipped past the guard and into the elevator, a brooding and distracted Peter Bishop at her heels.

* * *

A tall slim beautiful woman in black turtleneck and pencil skirt met them at the elevator. She smiled brilliantly at them.

"Senior Special Agent Broyles, Agent Farnsworth, Dr. Bishop. Nina Sharp will see you now."

She turned on her heel and marched off, a clipboard tucked under one arm, the other arm swinging with her hips as she walked. Astrid watched, fascinated, wondering if the woman had been taught to walk that way.

It took them a very long time to make it to Nina Sharp's office. Walter, while aware, was not entirely lucid. He had not said another word on the long drive to New York, but he had been humming the tune to 'Long Gone', by Sonny Thompson, without ceasing, for the entire four hour trip. Fortunately, it was a relatively catchy R&B tune. Broyles would have throttled him for anything less.

Finally, the young woman opened a large white door, ushering the trio into an equally large white room. At a clear desk, Nina Sharp looked up and smiled.

She rose from her seat and crossed the room as they entered, and struck out her hand towards them.

"Agent Farnsworth, it's a pleasure to meet you again."

A little overwhelmed, Astrid offered her own hand. "Ms. Sharp."

Her pale blue eyes flicked quickly from the Junior Agent to the Senior. They lingered for a long while on his face, and her smile brightened, just a little. "Phillip."

He allowed himself the briefest smile. "Ms. Sharp."

And finally she turned to Bishop. She stepped forward, laying a hand on the side of his face.

"Walter."

He frowned, looked down, began to breathe rapidly.

"Walter, it's Nina. Can you look at me, Walter?"

"Long gone. He's long gone…"

She angled his face up to hers. "Who's long gone, Walter?"

"Oh, that's just a song," began Astrid. "We were listening—"

"Peter," said Walter, finally making eye contact with Sharp. "Peter is long gone. I need to send a message to Bellie."

"Come now, let's have a seat, shall we?"

As she ushered Bishop to a white leather sofa along one very white wall, Astrid couldn't help but think the woman sounded as fake as a used car salesman, but she seemed genuine. It was puzzling, but Astrid, ever the FBI agent, loved a puzzle.

Nina and Walter sat, Nina taking both his hands in hers. They looked like old lovers, reunited after a separation. Her smile was warm, even as her gaze was steel.

"What do you need to tell William, Walter?"

"_**DisRe,"**_ he said softly. "I need to talk to him about _**DisRe."**_

"What about DisRe?"

"I need to change it. I'm going to change it. I would like him to change it."

"Who _**is DisRe?"**_ asked Astrid.

"I'm afraid you don't have clearance for that." Sharp glanced at Broyles. "Does she, Phillip?"

The man straightened to his full height, clasped his hands behind his back. "I'm sorry, Agent Farnsworth. She's right."

Astrid nodded, not surprised.

"What would you like it changed to, Walter?"

"2.4.10."

"2.4.10?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'll do my best. William is not the best at communicating these days." She sat back, tried to release his hands. He would not let go.

"He must. He must change _**DisRe,"**_ he said, pronouncing every syllable like a Shakespearean actor. "I am changing it, so he must change it. He _must."_

She sighed. "I'll let him know."

"If he doesn't, everything could be lost."

"I'll tell him."

"And, one more thing…if I may…"

"Yes, Walter?"

"I will need a _MD85 Powercell_. For the _**DisRe."**_

Nina glanced at Broyles, then back again.

"That's a very powerful fuel cell, Walter."

"Yes, I know. I designed it."

Nina Sharp was an amazing woman. Intelligent, influential, strong. A cancer survivor. She played in the big leagues. There were many layers to this woman, that much was obvious and Astrid was certain she knew more than she was letting on. It was impossible to know what she was thinking.

"Let me talk to William, Walter."

"I need that _MD85."_

"I'll see what I can do." She rose to her feet. "Phillip, we are ready for some tests, if you wish?"

"Tests?" asked Astrid. "For what?"

"Well, I believe we can help Walter with his memory, for one."

"And for another?"

"Will there be drugs?" Walter this time, eyes shining, eager.

Nina reached down, stroked his face. "Only the good kind, Walter."

"Oh yes, please."

"Walter, no." She turned to Broyles. "Sir, please, you can't—"

"You are in no position to tell me what I can or cannot do, Agent Farnsworth."

"But sir—"

"Dr. Bishop is free to remain in the care of _Massive Dynamic_ until such time as he wishes to leave. Is that understood, Dr. Bishop?"

Walter rose to his feet, fingers still waggling, but a smile spreading across his face. "Oh, yes. By all means, I would love to stay here for a while. But I must be back in my lab by tomorrow. It is imperative that I be back at my lab on Thursday. Is that clear, Agent Broyles? Aspirin?"

"Understood." Broyles turned to Astrid. "You will pick up Dr. Bishop tomorrow morning and return him to the lab, or his house, or wherever else he would like to go. Is that understood, Agent Farnsworth?"

She folded her arms across her chest, defeated. "Understood, sir."

"Ms. Sharp?"

Nina Sharp smiled. "Of course, Phillip. We would never dream of keeping somebody against their will." She cocked her elbow. "Walter, would you care to accompany me to the cafeteria? Our chefs make an excellent Crème Brule."

His eyes almost popped. "Oh yes. That's almost like a French custard. I remember I do so like custard…"

And arm in arm, the unlikely pair left the large white room, leaving Astrid, Broyles, and the tall slim woman in the pencil skirt.

The woman cocked her head. "May I show you to the elevator?"

"We can find our own way," growled Broyles.

"I'm so sorry, but here at _Massive Dynamic,_ we don't allow guests to wander the halls unsupervised. Please, follow me…" She turned and headed out, walking in that same, hip swinging way that Astrid found so peculiar.

"Who's _**DisRe?"**_ she asked as they followed her out.

"I would very much like to know that too."

They never saw the bald man watching them when they finally made it out and onto the street.

_**End of Chapter 6**_


	7. Chapter 7

_I've taken license with only one set of numbers. The others are accurate…_

**Gone**

_**Chapter 7**_

_Dear William, _

_I hope this finds you well. Walter Bishop is staying here with us for a few days. We are going to try to help him with his memory. I know you have warned me about this in the past, but he seems quite insistent, and honestly, things around here are becoming rather strange. He wants me to tell you to change __**DisRe **__to 2.4.10. from its current setting. He says this is extremely important and that you will know what to do._

_Other than that, he seems well, but he does miss Peter terribly. And I do know what you think about that._

_Take care, William. I am, as always, _

_Yours, _

_Nina_

___________________

There was an armed guard following them.

They bought hot dogs and pretzels like any other tourist at the Top of the World. Peter didn't take one bite, just carried them around with him until she physically had to take them from his hands and drop them into a trash bin. She bought him a coffee, but eventually it grew cold and she had to toss that out as well. They bought tickets for a virtual helicopter ride over the city of _Manhatan_, but half-way through the show, as they were buzzing somewhere over virtual Tribeca, she noticed the fingers of his left hand tapping out some sort of rhythm. She grabbed his sleeve and hauled him out of the theatre and into a quiet corner of the Food Court.

"Peter," she growled. "Snap out of it. I need you here."

He frowned, looked away, toward the large windows that spanned the 107th floor Food Court. Not for the first time, he reminded her of Walter thinking hard on a puzzle or lost inside an equation. IQ of 190. The foothills of madness. She felt completely helpless, but also knowing that she wasn't. Right now, their roles were reversed. His name meant Rock, and he was. It was Peter who brought everyone back to reality no matter how crazy their world got, who anchored people with his humanity, his sense of humor, his touch. It was his contribution, his gift to them all. Emotional wiring at its best.

And therefore, she thought to herself, an emotional wire was the way to reach him.

She touched his cheek, brought his face back in her direction. "Peter, I need you to look at me now. Look at me."

To her great relief, he did.

"I know seeing Walter today sent you for a tailspin. It was a shock for me as well. But Peter, there is a man, just one floor above us, who can help. If you are willing, if you can keep it together for just a little longer, we may get the answers we're looking for. Can you do that for me, Peter? Can you?"

"I'm trying, 'Livia. I'm...I'm really trying."

"I know. I need you to try just a little harder."

"Okay. Okay." He rubbed his face with his hands, let out a series of deep breaths, like a runner preparing for a race. She could see him compartmentalize the last three months, every wild and terrible thing, fold them up into little boxes and file them away in his complex brain for retrieval at a later date. Finally, when he looked at her this time, he was all there. Lucid. Sharp. Remarkable. "Okay, boss. What's next?"

"So I'm thinking we're gonna find a maintenance elevator, pop the escape hatch in the roof, climb up the emergency ladders and force our way onto the 108th floor, talk to a reclusive genius and save the world as we know it. Sound like a plan?"

_"Meh,"_ he grinned. "Nothin' I haven't done before."

"Somehow, I knew you'd say that."

And very casually, in case they were still being followed, they began to search for a maintenance elevator to the 108th floor.

* * *

She missed the cow.

The lab was just as quiet as when she'd left it, and normally she would have Gene to talk to, but Gene was living the high life in Allandale, so she trotted up the steps and switched on some music. _"Long Gone",_ of course, by Sonny Thompson. If it had helped Walter, it certainly could do the same for her. And as she stood, hands on hips, in the doorway of the back room that served as an office, staring at stack upon stack labeled boxes, she knew she could use all the help she could get.

Naturally, she started at 'D'.

______________

"This…is harder…than it looks…"

"I thought you said you'd done this before?"

"Yeah. About that."

She grinned. It was damned hard, this plan of hers. It looked so easy in movies. Hanging there above a 110 story shaft in the dark was hard enough, but prying open the magnetic doors was killing Peter's fingers, especially since he also had to hold on to the ladder at the same time. She prayed there wasn't a security detail waiting for them on the other side. That would be just their luck.

"Oh, wait…wait a minute…"

There was a grinding sound and a crack of light appeared under his hands. "C'mon, baby. C'mon…"

And with one final effort, the doors jarred open, first a little, then a little more, just enough to squeeze through. He held it open as she climbed up and under him, slipping through his arms and trying not to elbow or knee him anywhere as she went. Fortunately, there were no guards, and as soon as she was up, she turned to hold it open for him. He crawled through, flopped on the dark floor, and the door closed shut behind him.

"Remind me not to watch so many movies, 'kay? It really screws with my perception of reality."

"Got it." She looked around, frowning. "This doesn't look like the same place."

"Oh great," he groaned. "I'm sure my fingers will grow back sometime soon."

She rose to her feet, hands on hips. It was definitely 'Mechanical Mainframe', like the guard had said. A long dimly-lit corridor with metal girders for a ceiling and grey doors on every side. Impossible.

"Maybe Walter could grow me some fingers in the lab. He was growing an ear, once. I almost ate it…"

She looked around, and around again. "Where would the main elevators be?"

"Uhhh…" She knew he was visualizing in his head. Where the express elevator had been in relation to the Food Court, where the Food Court had been in relation to the main elevators. Still flopped on the ground, he pointed. "That way."

"Coming?"

Well, I'd hate to miss out on all the fun." He waved his hand, she grabbed it and pulled him to his feet.

There were voices coming down the corridor.

"Damn," she hissed. "Security. C'mon!"

They followed the corridor around corner after corner, moving quickly but quietly, staying just ahead of the security team until abruptly the corridor ended, walled off from any sight or sound of the main elevators. There was, however, another door. It was white and had an encoded lock.

They exchanged glances and Peter stepped over to the door.

He pressed five digits, and the bolts swung free. He shook his head. "I'm turning into my father."

"How the hell did you do that?" she asked, amazed.

"In Jacksonville, he said that he and Bell always used the same combination –"

"5.20.10."

"Yep." He pulled the door open, just a crack. "Crazy son-of-a-bitch. He was right."

"Let's go!"

And they pushed through the door, closing it softly so that any security team would be left clueless and wondering if there had indeed been a security breech on the 108th floor.

A long and very white corridor awaited them.

* * *

"Yes," said Phillip Broyles into the phone. "My people followed them to the lobby, but when they saw Dr. Bishop, they left. They are currently somewhere in the South Tower… Yes, I know. That is unfortunate."

He waved at the door as an agent came in, dropped a file on his desk and promptly left.

"It depends. Well… on what you want me to do. I am willing to help, but only up to a point. There are some lines I just won't cross… I don't know the answer to that. What would you do if you were in his place? It's just a question. I'll keep you posted if I hear anything else. I expect you will do the same for me."

He hung up the phone and rubbed his brow with a long finger. The world was quickly slipping into madness, an Alice-in-Wonderland story where he was finding it increasingly difficult to tell the good guys from the bad. Everyone had their own take on it, their own particular spin, their own stake in the madness.

He turned in his chair and looked out over the bullpen. Corner windows were good for that. Dunham and Francis were still working at their computer. They'd be going home soon, though, Francis to his lovely wife, Dunham to her 'significant other.' But _that_ was another story.

He sighed, deeply hoping he was still one of the good guys. Lately, he wasn't so sure.

* * *

You almost couldn't see her, for the mountain of boxes, files and manila folders stacked all around her. She had been reading all evening, scanning actually, looking for certain key words to pop out at her, but after hours upon hours of sitting cross-legged on the floor of a cold lonely lab, she was beginning to get just a little tired.

At least, the music had been good.

She took a deep breath and reached for the last folder, knowing for certain that it would not hold the answers she sought. She had learned a great many things, _too_ many things (oh the things she had learned) and she desperately hoped she could forget just a fraction of them. No one needed to know the results of science gone wrong, of what humans could do if they had the imagination and the skill. But the one thing she wanted to know, more than any of the others, just kept eluding her grasp.

_**DisRe.**_

She flipped a few pages, then stopped, flipped back to the front, and the label written in black magic marker.

_**DisRe.**_

_**Disintegration-Reintegration: Spacial and Chronological Reorientations: A Dissertation.**_ By Drs. Walter Bishop and William Bell. Dated June 16, 1985.

She tucked her knees up underneath her and began to read.

* * *

Apparently, William Bell was not at home.

They searched the office, which actually opened onto an expanse that could easily be called an apartment, although there were very few clothes or personal items anywhere. There were, however, many tanks of what appeared to be oxygen propped up in all corners of the complex, small bottles of what appeared to be eye drops as well, and photos on every horizontal surface. Photos of Walter as a young man, photos of Walter with his wife and son, photos of Nina Sharp, photos of men and women and children that had obviously meant something to him at some point during his long, illustrious life. There was even a photo of a blond-haired little girl, which could easily have been her. It could have been taken in Jacksonville.

What she did find odd, however, was that he had no photos of himself. A man as famous as William Bell, who had magazine covers and newspaper articles and all manner of public awards to his credit, in this place, there were none of these. Odd.

"Look at this." It was Peter, standing behind Bell's desk. She came over to find a day-timer, open to Thursday May 20. On it, there were two sets of numbers written, one set crossed off and the other circled in red.

"6.15.85 and 2.4.10."

"What do you think that means?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Another combination?"

"These guys and their numbers. 5.20.10… 6. 15. 85... 2.4.10. Secret bank accounts and safety deposit boxes and squirrelly-whacked hiding places. No wonder Walter's nuts."

"It means something…"

"Of course it means something. It means that, at some point in this crazy little adventure, we get to see what's behind door number two. Can we leave now?"

"Yeah, sure…" She stared at the page for a moment, struggling for the numbers to make sense. It was there, just beyond the edges of her reason, if only she could reach it. "I'm going to leave him a note. I have my cell. He can call us when he gets back."

"You're assuming he's one of the good guys."

She looked up, green eyes serious. "Yeah, I am."

"Dangerous assumption number one. Would you care to hear dangerous assumption number two?"

She glared at him.

"I kinda think you might be out of your area. Unless your carrier gives you _really_ good roaming…"

"Damn…" She pulled out her phone, tried to call the FBI office in Boston. Naturally, there was no signal. "What about your remote?"

"Ah. We got pandimensional roaming on that puppy. But I do pay a little more for that."

"Peter," she growled. "Can you still use it?"

"Not likely. Unless the good folks who were after us were either stupid or lazy or both. They would have gone to the apartment and taken that machine apart to ship it back stateside."

"Then how are we going to get back?"

He smiled. It was a sad smile. "I didn't mean for you to come, Olivia."

Suddenly, it hit her. Without a functioning remote device, and barring any radical unpredictable Fringe-type event, they would be stuck here, on this side, for a very long time.

She found a scrap of paper and began to write.

* * *

She woke up when something started to hum.

Looking around the dark lab office, Astrid blinked to get the sleep out of her eyes. She yawned and stretched and pushed the _**DisRe**_ file off her lap and onto the floor. It had been hard going but her grasp of all things scientific and pseudo-scientific had drastically improved over the last 18 months under Walter's tutelage, and she found that she could actually (albeit marginally) understand the molecular and quantum principles behind the _Disintegration/Reintegration_ concept_,_ if not much of the terminology. At some point, however, she had closed her eyes, just for a minute.

Now, it was just after midnight.

She rose to her feet and looked around. The humming wasn't coming from the office, so she wrapped her arms around herself and stepped out into the lab proper, scanning the room with large wide eyes. It was dark in the lab. She hadn't turned any lights on when she'd entered, for it had been early afternoon and really quite bright. She scanned all the equipment, especially those under tarps but nothing seemed amiss. Nothing except a very old machine in a far corner. That was humming.

Slowly, curiously, she moved over to it. They had never used this piece of equipment before, or at least, never when she'd been around. As she got closer, the sound got louder, and she quickly wished Peter had not dismantled the Geiger counter for one of his crazy projects. She reached out tentative fingers and, with a deep breath, pulled the tarp off the machine.

The word **"**_**DisRe"**_ was scribbled across its metallic surface in black magic marker, and on a display dial, there were two sets of numbers glowing in red.

5.20.10., and 6.15.85.

Outside and in the distance, she could have sworn she heard a dog howl.

* * *

The drive to Boston was, as Dunham had mentioned, a long uneventful one, even with a Bishop behind the wheel. They were both tired, but Olivia figured that Peter needed something to do to prevent him from sinking back into the pit that threatened to suck him in. As long as they made it to Boston in one piece, and without a speeding ticket, they'd be fine.

It was well after midnight when they left New York and thankfully, the highways had been relatively quiet. She'd tossed a glance in their rearview mirror every once in a while, just in case, but it still looked like they were clear. _Of course they would be. Who even knew they were here? _Then again, she'd seen too much to assume anything anymore, and kept on checking, just in case.

They drove first to the lab at Harvard, not really certain what to expect, but sure enough, it was nothing like it was back home. Here, it was a student lounge, with old leather couches, coffee bars and graffiti on the brick walls. Even at 5:00 in the morning, students were hanging out. They didn't bother to check any other offices on campus. They knew where Walter was, where Bell sometimes was. There was only one last place to go.

Green Street was a lovely street, with the exception of the dead trees that lined the boulevards. Olivia wondered why people hadn't cut them down, but then again, hope was a funny thing. They sat in the car drinking coffee as the dawn broke through the branches of dead elms, lost in their own thoughts.

"It looks the same," said Peter after a while.

"Except for the grass."

"Yeah." He swallowed, took a deep breath. "I don't really know what I'm doing here."

"A beginning, maybe," she offered. "Or an end. You need something here."

"They probably don't even live here anymore. Back home, the Rubells bought the place after we moved to Allston. They still own it."

"Only one way to find out."

"Yep."

She nodded, waited. He hadn't moved, which meant he wasn't ready. She had never been the best at reading people, but she did know that.

"Do you think she knew?" he asked, again after a while.

"Knew?"

"That I was…that, that I wasn't from...that I wasn't …hers?"

"I can't see how she couldn't."

"Yeah. Her too. That sucks." He continued to stare out the window. "Do you think there was a funeral?"

_Damn._ This was hard going. She reached into her pocket, pulled something out, passed it over. He frowned.

"That's Walter's coin…"

"It was on the gravestone."

"Gravestone?" He looked like she'd hit him in the gut. _"Oh._ Nice. Good. Swell."

"It wasn't you."

"What?"

"It wasn't you, Peter. It was another little boy, not you._ You_…are alive."

He released the breath he'd been holding, watched the coin ripple over his fingers like a leaf on a current. "Yeah. I guess I am."

She smiled at him, which he caught and gratefully returned. "Let's go."

They never noticed the bald man watching from the corner.

_**End of Chapter 7**_


	8. Chapter 8

**Gone**

_**Chapter 8**_

"Peter, there's no one home."

"Okay, that's just weird."

"It's weird because there's no one home?"

"No. It's weird because it looks exactly the same."

Peter was peering in through the glass of the front door, hand cupped over his eyes so he could see.

"Well," she began. "It _is_ an old house…"

"And they still have the same paint as they did 23 years ago? The same furniture in the same places? The same pictures on the walls?"

"You remember all that?"

It was a good question, and he turned to look at her. "Yeah, I guess I do. I always had a problem with stuff like that. I would remember one thing and Walter would remember another. Sometimes, he made me think_ I_ was the crazy one." He frowned, stepped past her, slipping his hand into the mailbox on the front wall of the house. He pulled out a key and turned to her. "Voila! Key in the very same place."

She made a face. "Lots of people keep keys in their mailboxes. It's predictable."

"I know…" He turned back to the door, put the key in the lock. She rolled her eyes, regretting this turn of events, but she was somewhat committed. Besides, they had broken into this house before. Twice. At least this time, he bothered to leave the door intact and it swung open as he stepped inside. "I guess, in many respects, the Bishop household was sadly predictable."

"Right. Sadly predictable," she muttered, wondering if anything about the Bishop household could ever have been so. She shook her head and followed him in.

The house was neat as a pin and smelled of lemon cleaner and old wood. It was a good smell. It was an Arts and Crafts style house, with high wainscoting and substantial dark woodwork everywhere. There was a framed photo on the wall at the entranceway – a younger Walter, a very young Peter and a slim woman with long brown hair, obviously Mrs. Bishop. In the living room, there were books - more books than in most libraries - a baby grand piano scattered with sheet music and shelving with CD selections ranging from opera to R&B, from classical to jazz. It was a warm and classy home, obviously belonging to an academic couple, and for the first time, Olivia began to form a picture of Peter's mother, and what a home like this might have been like to grow up in.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him, moving through this place slowly, deliberately, taking it all in. She wondered what he could remember, and what his mind was filling in between the childhood gaps that would naturally be there. Then there would be the gaps caused by trauma, memories repressed and suppressed for self-protection. And finally, Walter had admitted to shocking his young son with car batteries – memories from any age would always be suspect.

He picked up a piece of sheet music and she knew he was tempted to play. Put it back down. Wandered some more, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. There were many small, framed photos around the room and he seemed drawn to them, naturally, but avoided picking any of them up. She cast her eyes around as well, fell upon a newspaper folded on a settee. _The Boston Globe._ June 16, 1985.

This wasn't a home, she realized. It was a mausoleum.

He began up the stairs next. It was a lovely staircase, with old, richly-grained wood, again heavy and square in the Arts & Crafts architectural style. He ran one hand along a banister that just begged for a little boy to slide down it, the other along the wall going up, as if the paint could serve to trigger memories of better days, when life was little more than phonics and hide-n-go-seek and bedtime stories.

At the top of the stairs were several wooden doors and Peter put his hand on one, turning to her before opening. For the first time since they'd crossed over, he seemed unreal, detached, otherworldly. "Master Bedroom," he said in an expressionless voice. "Robin's egg blue and brown. Paisley comforter bought in _Chester, England._ His and Hers Awards, Degrees and Diplomas over the bed." He pushed open the door. It was exactly as he'd described.

Beautiful. And because it hadn't changed in 23 years, weird.

On to the next room. "White and sunshine yellow. She was in the middle of redecorating. You can still smell the paint," he said, and she could. In fact, it smelled like fresh latex. He pushed the door open. There were paint cans on the floor.

"They haven't changed a thing," he said flatly. "In this entire house, they haven't changed a single thing in 23 years."

He bypassed one room, which was obviously a bathroom, heading straight for the door at the end of the hall. There was no need for narration. She knew well enough what she would find there.

He took a deep breath and pushed it open.

A little boy's bedroom, frozen in time. 1985 to be precise. Several globes, a planet mobile, model dinosaurs. Jets and spaceships and baseballs. Books and comic books. A Space Shuttle poster - the _Challenger,_ celebrating an eleventh mission.

She frowned. The _Challenger_ never had an eleventh mission.

Different choices.

There were teddy bears still on the bed, and she felt tears sting her eyes. She had heard of parents who had lost children keeping rooms exactly as they were, never changing a thing just in case, as if changing anything meant denying something, admitting something else, and for a grieving parent, that would be the most difficult door to close. For the first time, her heart broke for Walter Bishop - both of them - not 'mad scientist' but grieving fathers who had lost their beloved children in random and merciless ways. Grief was a powerful force. It changed things forever.

She couldn't imagine how Peter was feeling.

He was standing by the bed and bent down to pick up a stuffed dog from the pillow. It was obviously well-worn and well-loved, a button sewn on for one eye. He turned it over and over in his hands, a little grin tugging into one cheek. She moved over to his side.

"Do you remember it?"

He smiled at her and she couldn't miss the sadness in his eyes. "No," he said softly, and he put it back down.

"Rufus," said a voice from behind them. "His name is Rufus."

They both turned to find a woman standing in the doorway. She was wearing denim overalls splattered with yellow paint and her long dark hair was piled up in a messy bun. The woman from the photo. Walter's wife. Peter's mother.

She was pointing a gun at them.

* * *

"What day is it?"

Nina smiled at him. That was the third time today he had asked. They were heading back to 'the sleep room', where Walter had spent the night. There had been nice music in the sleep room, warm sheets, and just a faint whiff of Fentanyl to keep him sleeping like a baby. He never even noticed the electrodes they had taped to his head.

"It's Thursday, May 20th, Walter. I've told you that already."

"Is Agent Farnsworth coming to get me?"

"I'm told she's on her way. Would you like a sandwich?"

It was like distracting an errant child. So easy, and just a little wrong. But for some reason, he was insistent.

"Yes," he nodded, blinking rapidly. "Yes, I would. But first, may I see the _**DisRe?"**_

She laid a hand on his arm. "Walter, I've told you. We don't have a _**DisRe. **_That was something you and William postulated. We've never built one."

"Oh," he looked down, momentarily confused. "Oh, yes, that's right. Do you have a Particle Accelerator?"

Her perfect smile froze in place. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh. No reason. I would very much like to see it. Today, if I may. Before I leave."

"It's not accessible, if that's what—"

"Oh no, no. I don't want to tinker. I just would like to see it." His smile brightened, and for the first time, she wondered just how insane he really was.

"Ms. Sharp!" A young man in a lab coat jogged up to them. He was large, heavy set, with a baby face. He was also panting slightly. "Ms. Sharp—"

"Brandon, you've met Dr. Bishop before, haven't you?"

"Uh, yes. A few times, actually. Ms. Sharp, we have a small problem with uh, with um…"

"Yes, Brandon?" Smile like pearls, eyes like steel.

"With the Particle Accelerator."

She flashed those steely eyes at Walter, who smiled some more.

* * *

Starting at first in New York City, dogs began to howl.

* * *

"How dare you?"

The woman in the painted overalls began to shake.

Olivia glanced over at Peter. He looked as if he were about to break into a million pieces.

"How dare you," the woman growled. "How dare you break into my son's room?"

Olivia held her hands out, palms spread wide. "No, ma'am. That's not what we're doing—"

"Silence, girl. I've had enough of people like you, sifting through our lives like dung beetles. Would you steal that stuffed dog? Would you?! Sell it to some magazine for thousands of dollars? Shame on you. Both of you. Shame on you!"

Peter hadn't said a word, was just staring at her, head cocked, brow furrowed.

"I believe my companion downstairs has called for some police, so I think you two should be going now. Unless you really wish to be arrested. That would be most amusing. Don't you think? Don't you?"

Olivia frowned now. The woman's eyes were too wide, her gestures too theatrical. It was likely she'd never held a gun in her life. But still, there was something else…

"We don't wish to be arrested, Mrs. Bishop," she said, wishing that Peter would jump in sometime soon. As it was, he was still staring. And silent.

"Then you should go. Now. Go now."

This was very awkward. "Peter, maybe we should—"

"My son's name is Peter. I love that name. Such a strong good name."

Peter smiled now, but still hadn't moved.

"It's actually a Greek name, although most people assume it's English. _Petrus._ Is that your name, too, young man? Honestly, truly?"

Peter nodded.

"I keep trying to paint that room. He'll come back once I finish painting that room. I know it. I get to come three times a week to work on it. It's such a large room. And I have so many other projects."

Olivia scowled at Peter again. He really wasn't being helpful. She sighed and put out her hand. "My name is Olivia –"

"Don't interrupt, girl. I'll never get that room painted, now. _This _interruption, _that _interruption. Walter's always at work, and now Peter has gone away. If it's not one thing, it's another. What am I to do?"

Tears had sprung into her eyes now, and the gun, a small 28, was wavering in the air.

"My husband is at work and my boy has gone away. What am I to do?"

There was no answer to that. The woman was mad. His father, and now his mother. All chips stacked against him.

"What. Am. I. To. Do?!"

"You should paint," said Peter finally.

The woman froze, nodded, tears brimming in her unnaturally wide eyes. "Yes. I should. I should paint."

"I'm glad you chose yellow."

She nodded again, this time tears were filling behind her long lashes. "I wanted to paint it pink. Pink and gray. That would have been nice. But my son hated that idea. He said only girls would sleep in a pink guest room."

"Yellow is for sunshine. Happiness. And summer."

"That's what he said."

"Ι παρατηρήσει προσπάθησε να είναι μια καλύτερη άνθρωπο από ό,τι ο πατέρας μου," Peter said softly.

The woman stared at him, gun wavering, tears spilling.

"Τι λέτε;" she asked after a long moment.

Peter smiled.

She began to lower her gun.

"Freeze! FBI!" Two armed officers burst into the room, weapons drawn, hands supporting. They were wearing flack vests and the letters FBI were proudly and plainly etched across their backs.

One agent had a long blond ponytail.

"Olivia?" said Peter.

"Charlie?" said Olivia.

"What the hell?" said Charlie.

"Hands on your heads," said Olivia. _"Now!"_

"I think I'll go paint now," said Peter's mother. "Astrid, where's my paintbrush?! That girl is so sweet. She's FBI too, you know. But she takes care of me. Walter makes sure of it. Astrid, honey, can you make me some tea?"

And she turned and left the room, leaving Peter and Olivia with Charlie and Olivia and the sound of helicopters approaching in the early morning skies.

* * *

The bald man on the corner lifts a small device up to his lips. At first glance, one would assume it to be a cellular device. It is about the same size and shape. But that would be at first glance only.

"Yes," he says into it. "The machines have been activated. It remains to be seen which direction will be taken." He looks up into the sky, where shapes are moving against the clouds.

"The storm is beginning. I must leave."

And he folds the device into his pocket, turns and walks away down a Green Street, lined with dead trees.

* * *

"What exactly are we looking at?" asked Phillip Broyles as he stood at a window high above a vast chamber deep in the cold white heart of _Massive Dynamic._

"A CMS," said Walter, smiling quite gleefully. "Isn't it fantastic?"

"A CMS?" Astrid frowned and wrapped her arms around her chest. "Walter, I read about that in your notes... Shouldn't this be…somewhere else?"

Broyles turned back to glare at Nina Sharp. "What exactly is a CMS?"

"Well Phillip," Sharp began, clasping her hands together in a friendly yet professional manner. She was, after all, a very good spin doctor. "CMS stands for _Compact Muon Solenoid._ It's the central part of a LHC, or _Large Hadron Collider_, a very complex piece of machinery—"

"It's a particle accelerator," grinned Walter. "We used to call'em Atom Smashers! Such a descriptive name, don't you think?"

Broyles frowned. "I thought these things had to be underground."

"Yeah," added Astrid. "And in a remote area. There's one in Switzerland, right? And in Texas."

"And one here in New York," said Nina. "And it _is_ underground. Right here. Beneath us."

"Beneath New York City?" growled Broyles. "How did _Massive Dynamic_ manage to build a Particle Accelerator beneath New York City?"

Walter waggled his eyebrows. "Beep, beep, beeeeeep! Zoom!"

"Oh!" Astrid's hand flew to her mouth. "The subways!"

"The subways?"

Nina smiled. She was smooth, he had to give her that. "Why Phillip, do you honestly think _Massive Dynamic_ plans, drills, installs, operates, surveils and maintains tunnels beneath the world's most populous cities just to help people get to work in the morning?"

"Isn't it fantastic?" Walter was positively beaming.

Broyles closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head.

"Oh, it's completely safe," continued Nina. "In fact, the most antimatter we've ever been able to produce couldn't even turn on a light bulb."

"_Antimatter?!"_ Broyles couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Anti-_particles,_ actually," corrected Walter. "Anti-protons, anti-gluons, anti-quarks and the like."

"We've actually produced antitritium once," said Brandon. He was as eager as a schoolboy. "It was so cool."

"Wow," said Astrid.

"We're working on warp technology," Brandon continued. He was looking at Astrid now. Like a puppy. "You know, like in _Star Trek._ It's a relativistic theory based on Lorentzian Manifold physics, those sub-postulated by Miguel Alcubierre—"

"Brandon." Nina Sharp cut him off.

"Sorry, Ms. Sharp."

"Antimatter," repeated Broyles. He was not liking where this was going

"Well, yes," said Nina. "But that's neither here nor there. The thing is, we shut the CMS down 3 years ago."

"Why?" asked Astrid.

"It doesn't really matter, Agent Farnsworth. What really matters is that we turned it off."

"And?" said Broyles.

Sharp and Brandon exchanged glances.

"And at midnight last night, someone, or something, turned it back on."

* * *

The sound of helicopters is quite unmistakable.

One rarely hears them, unless you're a pilot or a soldier or a medic, but in a quiet, ivy-league neighbourhood in Boston, Massachusetts, it is a noticeable thing.

The woman named Olivia Dunham raised her Glock, just a little higher and glowered. "Who the hell are you? My twin sister?"

"No," said the woman named Olivia Dunham, who wished she had her own Glock in her hand, not strapped to her ankle. "No. But we are very similar."

"Forget it, Liv," growled Charlie Francis, his own weapon aimed at Peter Bishop's chest. "The choppers are here. We're taking them in. You can ask all the questions you want later."

"Taking us where?" Olivia again. Peter, for his part, had gone silent again. In fact, he didn't seem to even notice the agents or their weapons. He was looking around his room.

"Hands on your heads," snapped Olivia.

Olivia began to obey.

Peter did not.

"C'mon pal," snarled Francis. "Don't make me shoot you. Hands on your head."

When Peter finally looked at him, there was a strange smile on his face. "You're not gonna shoot me. You've been told to secure me. If you so much as touch me, you're a dead man, right?"

Charlie swallowed.

Peter reached into his pocket.

"Don't do it!" both agents now, guns trained on Bishop.

"Peter, no…" Olivia warned. _Not the remote, not the remote…_

He pulled out a coin, held it up for them to see, took one long last look at it himself, and finally, gently, laid it on the bedside table next to Rufus the dog with the button eye_._

He put his hands on his head.

They were cuffed and shoved down the stairs, shepherded past Mrs. Bishop's bodyguard and caregiver, Astrid Farnsworth, who was watching from the kitchen, and past Mrs. Bishop herself. She was seated at the piano, a cup of tea at her side, playing a shuffling base line and rolling piano riff on the keys.

"_Long Gone,"_ by Sonny Thompson.

Peter slowed for one long last glance before being shoved into the morning light.

All the neighbourhood had come out to see, as helicopters on Green Street were not a common thing. There were several black SUVs on the street as well, and agents in flack vests as if the pair were fugitives and not travelers. With a sinking feeling, Olivia realized that she was being ushered one way as Peter was being ushered another.

"No," she said, straining against her cuffs. Charlie shoved her towards an SUV. "No! Peter!"

He threw her a long look before the other Olivia Dunham grabbed his arms and pushed him up and into the helicopter. She herself climbed in, slammed the hatch and immediately the rotors started up again, lifting dust and dead leaves into the air.

And for the third time in three months, Peter Bishop was gone.

"The kid was right," said Charlie. "We can't touch him, but_ you, _Livvy - Broyles didn't say anything about you." He grinned at her and the scar on his cheek twisted.

_Dear Charlie. Dead Charlie. How she missed him._

"Now please get in the car."

And he held open the door, reaching to protect her head. She realized there was another man in the back, silhouetted in the darkness and she blinked to adjust her eyes to the lack of light. As he pulled off his sunglasses off, Dunham felt the world begin to shift and slip.

He smiled at her.

"Hello, 'Liv," said John Scott.

And somewhere on Green Street, a dog began to howl.

_**End of Chapter 8 **_


	9. Chapter 9

_Sorry it things get confusing. I am channeling JJ Abrams, after all... =)_

**Gone**

_**Chapter 9**_

For the second time in 24 hours, Peter Bishop was in a helicopter buzzing over the skyline of _Manhatan_. True, the first time had been a virtual tour, and he had not paid attention in the least, wrestling as he had been with the shocking and profound idea that his father was a very powerful and potentially dangerous man, and that his own plan for a loving family reunion had been severely undermined because of it. 24 hours ago, he didn't know the half of it.

Back home, his father was crazy. Here, his mother was. 'Loving family' seemed to have no place in the history, or the future, of the Bishop family. And not for the first time, he was beginning to wish he had just left everything well enough alone.

A woman named Olivia Dunham was sitting across from him, staring at him with that feral, level-eyed stare of hers. Physically, she was the exact replica – even her lipstick was the same shade of pale. But she seemed harder, more assertive, and he wondered if that was simply how she came across to everyone else. He had had the good fortune of knowing 'his Olivia' for almost a year and a half, had quite probably lost his heart to her a while back, although he fought with admitting it. 'His Olivia' was still as emotionally repressed as ever, but toward him, he thought she had warmed, just a little. The woman sitting across from him, however, was a block of ice.

There was an agent on his left, another on his right. His hands were cuffed behind his back. He was a prisoner, not an entirely new experience in his lifetime, but here, going where he knew he was going, it was disturbing and certainly not what he had been expecting. Then again, nothing said 'Loving Family' better than handcuffs.

The chopper began to slow, and he could see the twin towers of the World Trade Center in the distance. The familiar shape of _Massive Dynamic_ sprawled out beneath them and they began to drop, slowly but surely, down to the roof. He forced himself to breathe as the struts bumped once, twice on the hard surface, and before he knew it, he was being forced out and onto the rooftop. It was remarkable, he noticed, how much your arms assisted in your ability to balance, and with the rotors churning and sucking above his head, he was grateful for the agents who grabbed him to keep him steady.

They paused before the rooftop door, while Olivia Dunham removed the cuffs and clipped them to her back pocket. She gave him one last appraising look before pulling open the door, shoving him through and into the stairwell.

* * *

His smile had not changed.

Now that she could breathe once again, she found herself studying him, his face, his hair, the set of his shoulders. It was all the same, and she felt an odd sense of déjà vu. She had seen him over and over again, for months after he was dead, had almost gotten used to the feeling, had felt profoundly sad when he was finally, truly gone. But now, as he sat beside her on the roads heading east to Boston's waterfront district, she was reminded of how he had made her feel back when he had loved her.

"You look so much like her," he was saying. He had always been good at small talk, could always carry the conversation when she would find herself too overwhelmed to speak. And he did it so easily, as if there was nothing 'small' about anything he said. Truth be told, he could have been reading the phone book and she'd be mesmerized.

"So, you are an FBI agent right?"

She nodded, tried to clear her throat. "Yeah. I am."

"Do we know each other well?'

How could she talk? What could she possibly say? _You were the love of my life. I never knew you at all. I thought you betrayed everything we fought for. You died in my arms_. Instead, all she said was, "Yeah. We knew each other well."

He smiled again, his eyes dancing with intelligence and mischief. "Isn't that interesting?"

"Do you know _me?"_ came the gruff voice from the driver's seat, and suddenly she felt like Dorothy, who returns to Kansas to find all her farmhand friends and family whom she'd left as completely different characters back in Oz.

She couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, Charlie. I knew you too. We were partners."

"Cool," he said, grinning in the rearview mirror. "Just like me and Liv now."

"Just like you and Liv now." She looked back at John, raised an eyebrow, happy to be finding familiar rhythms with these two. "And you? Do you know this Olivia well?"

"Oh, don't ask," sang Charlie from the front. "He had to transfer out of the Division once Broyles found out."

John grinned, shaking his head. "Meh. I was heading out anyway. Moving up, you know, leaving all the little people behind."

"Oh yeah, the little people, huh? Wait 'til I tell Liv."

"Oh, please don't. She'll kill me twelve ways from Sunday." And the two men laughed like old friends. She couldn't help it. She started to laugh along with them, so relieved to be with them and the tears just came. John reached out, pulled her into a hug. "It's okay, kiddo. It's scary right now, but things are gonna be okay."

"Yeah," echoed Charlie. "You're gonna be fine."

And for the first time in months, she believed him.

___________________

Dr. Walter Bishop was looking out the window, humming happily to himself.

"Walter, do you know what's going on?" Astrid asked as they drove back to Boston.

"Why?" he answered. "Is something going on?"

She released a puff of breath. "Agent Broyles says it's starting again. Vibrations in cities all over the world. Dogs howling, livestock acting up, birds flying in circles. There have been over 12 planes recorded as crashed or missing, and the FAA is considering grounding all flights because of unstable magnetic fields. Does any of this have anything to do with that Particle Accelerator?"

"Oh yes, quite probably. Can we stop at a drive through somewhere? I would very much like a Big Gulp. A blue one."

"Okay, I'll make you a deal. I'll get you a Big Gulp if you tell me what this has got to do with your _**DisRe**_, a Particle Accelerator and some unstable magnetic fields. Deal?"

"Will we be back at the lab by midnight?"

"Do we need to be?"

"Yes, absolutely. Preferably before."

"Then, yes, absolutely we will be back at the lab before midnight."

"With a Big Gulp?"

"With a Big Gulp. A great big blue Gulp."

"Then, yes Asterix, we have ourselves a deal."

He turned back to the window and began to hum. It was a slightly different tune this time, but still, she recognized it immediately.

"_Still Gone,"_ by Sonny Thompson.

Behind them, the lights in New York City began winking out.

* * *

They pulled into the parking lot of a seedy east-end hotel, the kind the Bureau used for witness protection before big trials. Her handcuffs had been removed earlier, and both John and Charlie scanned the area before allowing her to step out of the SUV and into the hotel.

They headed up to the 6th floor.

A short, tattered hallway that smelled of garlic and old socks, then a door. John rapped three times, paused, then three times more. The door opened and a tall shape loomed over her.

_"That_… is uncanny," said Phillip Broyles and he seemed to look right through her. She felt very small. Finally, he turned to Scott and Francis. "Are you sure you weren't followed?"

"We weren't followed," said Charlie. Broyles raised a brow.

John Scott grinned. "We weren't followed."

"Good. If this is to work, we can have no other agencies getting their fingers into this. Have you briefed her?"

They exchanged glances. "Um, well, no sir. We thought it best to leave that up to you."

"Very well. Agent Dunham Number Two, will you follow me?" and with that he turned, hands clasped behind his back, and headed into the seedy room. She threw a glance at both John and Charlie, and followed.

* * *

They ushered him to a very large, completely white room with a clear desk in the center and left him. There was a window behind the desk, showing the _Manhatan_ skyline, but other than those items, the room was empty. He stood in the middle and waited.

The room looked clean, sterile in fact, and the walls were a strange texture, like a computer screen or television monitor. He swung around, took a few steps, touched it with his finger. It pressed in, ever so slightly, sending ripples in concentric circles out. He sighed and looked back at the desk.

The window was gone.

No, it was on the wall to the far left of the desk. He was certain it hadn't been there before. It made him unsure, so he stepped back to the center of the room, shoved his hands in his pockets, and waited.

His mind was never good at staying still. It was only marginally quieter when he was active, on the run or planning something, but he got the distinct impression that he was being watched, and he'd be damned if he let anyone think he was nervous. So he steeled his will, stilled his feet and waited.

The window was gone.

He felt light spill upon his back and turned to find it there, behind him, the wall opposite the desk. He swallowed, stepped over to it, brushed the pane with his fingers. Not cooler like normal glass. A projection. Interesting. He had seen this at _Massive Dynamic_ before, their walls serving as enormous screens, flashing and fading soothing peaceful images for their patrons.

Still, he waited.

Finally, after what he believed to be over an hour, the door swung open and his father, Dr. Walter Bishop, walked in.

__________________

"Since you are here, I can only assume you know where you are."

It was a strange statement, but to tell the truth, she'd heard stranger. "Yes, sir."

"And where are you, exactly?"

"Well," she clasped her hands between her knees. "I'm in a seedy third rate hotel room in Roxbury…"

He stared at her.

She cleared her throat.

"…in what some might call the other side of an alternate universe."

"Some might call _yours_ 'the other side."

She pursed her lips. "Some might."

"Why are you here?"

Now she sighed. It was a loaded question.

"I came because Peter Bishop came."

"And why did Peter Bishop come?"

"Are you asking because you want to know, or do you know and want to see what_ I_ know?"

"We can end this game now or I can drop you back at the sidewalk on Green Street. Without your rental car."

_Check and mate._ "Fair enough," she said. Broyles was always a hard case. "Peter Bishop is from 'this side'. The Peter Bishop from our side died apparently when he was seven, and Walter, _our_ Walter, built a door to bring him over."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Which one?"

His eyes were like flint. "Why did Peter Bishop come?"

"Oh that one. Um, I think Peter just wanted some answers. He wanted to find out…" Her voice left her suddenly as she remembered. _I need to know where I belong._ It seemed like years ago. "He wanted to see for himself." She nodded. "Yes. He wanted to see for himself."

Broyles stared at her some more. "So he wasn't sent?"

"Sent? By whom?"

"He just came on his own?"

"Yes. He built his own doorway and came through on his own. With me."

"He built a door? On his own?"

She grinned at his expression. "He's a resourceful guy."

"Obviously. Do you know why there is a war going on?"

She shook her head. "No."

"According to my sources, it's because your Walter Bishop stole another man's son. And that other man is very, very angry. Very powerful, and very angry."

She nodded now.

Broyles continued. "He has sent terms to 'your side', calling for several concessions, but the main one being the return of his son. Your CIA and Homeland Security were tasked with his retrieval. Apparently, you got to him first."

"Apparently."

He leaned forward now, his large dark eyes somber and serious. "There have been things happening for almost twenty years now. Strange things. Unnatural things. I have been witness to only a fraction of them, and the little I have seen horrifies me. That man Dr. Bishop, is a danger to all life. Ours and yours. There are those of us who would very much like to see him stopped."

She swallowed.

"But there are things that have been set in motion now that cannot be stopped unless outside forces are brought to bear, in both this world and yours. Do you understand?"

"No sir. I'm afraid I don't."

He sighed now. "Very well. Come with me." And when he rose, his legs went on and on. She followed, and soon, they were out of the seedy room and back into the seedier hallway, at the elevator.

Broyles went in. Charlie and John didn't.

John caught her hand as she passed by. He smiled. "So, this Bishop guy. He, uh, he treat you right?"

"Yeah. He treats me right. Better than right, actually." She looked down, smirked, shook her head. "I don't deserve all the chances he gives me."

John squeezed her hand. "Sure you do." He leaned in to kiss her lightly on the cheek. "Take care, Liv. Be good. Be strong."

Tears were stinging her eyes again as he backed away from the elevator doors. Charlie leaned in.

"Hold on to your hat, Livvy…" And he too gave her a kiss on the cheek.

She fought back the rush of tears. _Damn,_ but these few days had been hard. And as she stared at the door as it closed shut on two men she loved with her whole heart, she thought of the third, the one who was still alive and whom she knew cared so very deeply for her and whom she had deliberately kept at a distance. She had loved and she had lost. She would not keep him out anymore.

She took a deep breath.

Staring straight ahead, Broyles pressed the button for 13.

_Most hotels don't have a 13__th__ floor…_

She could have sworn she saw a flash of blue light.

Suddenly, the elevator was packed. Noisy, crowded, bustling with tourists.

And now empty, only Broyles and her, and the sound of a bell opening the door into a now familiar penthouse suite on the 108th floor of the South Tower in New York City.

_________________

Walter Bishop was talking into something that resembled a Bluetooth as he walked in.

"No, I did not give permission for that. Just turn it off, dammit! Figure it out. That's what I pay you for. See to it immediately, and triple the security. I don't want Bellie anywhere near that device – wait... just one moment…"

He noticed Peter standing in the middle of the room.

"What in the name of hell are you doing here?"

Peter blinked.

"You look like a piece of shit, boy. Go get changed. Put on a suit, and for God's sake, shave."

He took a seat at his desk, began to type into a keypad built into the clear desk, all the while carrying on the conversation over the headset. "Shut it down immediately, or I will terminate your entire department. Is that understood?"

He continued typing for a long moment, before stopping and slowly glaring up from under his brow.

"What, are you deaf as well? I said go get changed."

Peter swallowed, glanced around the room. He felt dizzy. He'd thought things had been bizarre before. This was an entirely new Division of Bizarre. A whole new Department.

"I said _GO!"_

Peter flinched, startled. "Okay, okay. Um, uh…where?"

The elder Bishop scowled. "How the hell should I know? In your office, one would presume. You should never come to work dressed like that. You look like a damnable street rat…"

Suddenly, his words caught in his throat, and he stared for another long moment, before reaching down to press an embedded button. "This is Dr. Bishop. Is that package…? Very well. Thank you."

There was silence in the very large, completely white room before slowly, ever so slowly, Walter Bishop rose to his feet, deep-set eyes glued to the young man standing in the middle of the room.

"Peter…" he said softly, his voice barely a whisper.

_Loving family reunion, loving family reunion, loving family reunion…_The words were running over and over in Peter's mind as the man he now knew as his father stepped around the desk and began to move towards him.

"But you're so thin," said Walter Bishop. His eyes were shining with sudden tears. "Somehow, I thought …somehow …"

"You thought I'd be fatter," said Peter, amazed that he was actually able to speak. His throat was stinging. His eyes too. "I _was_ kind of… rounder… as a kid…"

Walter Bishop nodded, stepped even closer. For a moment, he looked like the other Walter, as emotions bounced and collided all at once, a conflict of heart and brain like no other. His hands reached out and they were shaking as they tentatively touched Peter's arms, gave them a squeeze. Patted Peter's chest, making sure he was solid. Cupped Peter's face in a daddy's tender embrace.

"May I hug you?"

Through tears of his own, Peter smiled.

_**End of Chapter 9**_


	10. Chapter 10

_As Charlie said, hang on to your hats. Things are about to get a little bumpy…_

**Gone**

_**Chapter 10**_

There is a meeting in Washington DC, in a place called 'the Situation Room' in the West Wing of the White House. The CIA is there, as well as the Pentagon, the DoD, DoE, Homeland Security and officers from all three wings of the Armed Forces. They are briefing the President of the United States, Barack Obama, about some very serious problems.

Problems with Particle Accelerators, to be precise.

The Big Guns - CERN's LHC, Upton's RHIC, the Texas Tevatron and Australia's ANTARES Hadron Colliders were running at overload capacity - the fail-safes built into each and every system having been inexplicably overridden. Even the smaller facilities housing cyclotrons, synchrotrons and the smaller application fixed colliders, such as those found in Berkley, Cambridge, Oak Ridge, Dubna, Tennesse, Hamburg, Novosibirisk, Frascati, and unnamed locations in China, Iran, India and North Korea, were up and running wildly, beyond capacity, generating exponentially increasing amounts of energy and anti-particles. Even those older retired models, such as Israel's Koffler PA, Berkley's extinct and partially dismantled Bevatron, and Upton's cancelled ISABELLE had suddenly and mysteriously turned themselves back on.

Not to mention those that were privately owned by companies such as _Massive Dynamic,_ which, although in co-operation with the Defense Department, had interests of their own to protect and to serve.

More than 57 aircraft had crashed or otherwise disappeared, and satellite systems and signals were being routinely interrupted. Fluctuating power outages in New York City, Upton, San Francisco, Paris, London, Tokyo, Beijing, St. Petersburg and other major centers were disrupting the social and economic networks of these cities, and people were beginning to panic. Solar flares were the scapegoat of choice. People could accept that form of pseudoscience far more readily than not. It was, after all, DoE's 'weather balloon.'

Nobody thinks to call Walter Bishop.

* * *

In another place, there is a meeting in Washington DC, in a place called 'the Situation Room' in the West Wing of the New White House. The CIEA is there, as well as the Pentagon, the DoD, DoE, Homeland Security and officers from all four wings of the Armed Forces. They are briefing the President of the United States, Barak Obama, about some very serious problems.

Problems with Particle Accelerators, to be precise.

The Big Guns - CERN's LHC, MIT's RHIC, the Texas Tevatron and Australia's ANTARES Hadron Colliders were running at overload capacity - the fail-safes built into each and every system having been inexplicably overridden. Even the smaller facilities housing cyclotrons, synchrotrons and the smaller application fixed colliders, such as those found in Berkley, Harvard, Oak Ridge, Dubna, Louisiana, Hamburg, Novosibirisk, Frascati, and unnamed locations in China, Iran, Iraq, Pakistan and North Korea, were up and running wildly, beyond capacity, generating exponentially increasing amounts of energy and anti-particles. Even those older retired models, such as Israel's Koffler PA, Berkley's extinct and partially dismantled Bevatron, and MIT's cancelled ISABELLA had suddenly and mysteriously turned themselves back on.

Not to mention those that were privately owned by companies such as _Massive Dynamic,_ which, although in co-operation with the Defense Department, had interests of their own to protect and to serve.

More than 157 aircraft had disappeared or crashed, and satellite systems were being routinely interrupted. Fluctuating power outages in New York City, Boston, San Francisco, Paris, London, Tokyo, Beijing, St. Petersburg and other major centers were disrupting the social and economic networks of these cities, and people were beginning to panic. Solar flares were the scapegoat of choice. People could accept that form of pseudoscience far more readily than not. It was, after all, DoE's 'weather balloon.'

The first man they call is Dr. Walter Bishop.

* * *

"Hello, Olive."

Olivia released a long-held breath. "William."

"Please, come in." He stepped aside. "Phillip, will you join us?"

"No," said Broyles. "This is as far as I go. As I said, there are some lines I am not willing to cross."

William Bell nodded, smiled a sad little smile. "I understand. Thank you for all your help." He reached out a bony hand, which Broyles caught and held.

"Just end this, William."

And the elevator door closed, leaving Olivia Dunham and William Bell standing in a long white corridor. Alone.

"How do you do that?" she asked, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at the elevator.

"Physics, my dear."

"Right," she grumbled. "Stay in school."

Together, they began to walk down the hall to his office/apartment. He stooped a little to smile at her. "Would you care for some tea?"

She tried to keep her eyes forward, not wanting to meet his. "What I really want is answers." She glanced at him now. "But tea would be nice."

* * *

The _**DisRe**_ was humming along nicely.

"Look, Asteroid, oh look. It's on!"

Walter hurried over to the strange device in that half-sprint, half-shuffling gait of his, slopping icy blue gloop on the dusty floor of the lab. He patted the machine as if it were an old dog, and turned to her, beaming. "I'm so happy it's working. I was worried that it wouldn't."

Astrid put one hand in her pocket, as the other was holding a large plastic cup, and moved over to his side. "What is that thing, exactly?"

"Oh, this is _**DisRe**_. The Disintegration-Reintegration device that Bellie and I made many, many years ago. In fact," he patted it again. "I believe it may even be older than you."

"So what does it do?" She took a long slurp of her Big Gulp. She had a red one.

"Disintegration-Reintegration. The principles of teleportation theoretically require the total and complete deconstruction at a sub-atomic level of the object being transported and its subsequent total and complete atomic reconstruction elsewhere, or in this case, else_when_. It has been successfully demonstrated in photons, quite admirably I might add, but it is still far too unstable for anything larger than, say, a grapefruit. Remember what happened to our dear Mr. Jones. Ghastly, to say the least… All that flaking skin and milky sclera… But that is not my aim tonight. I have no desire to teleport anything. I am merely using the mechanics of the machine to access the Particle Accelerator beneath _Massive Dynamic_ to use as an energy source, combining it - er… with Bellie's help of course - with the _Massive Dynamic_ Particle Accelerator on the _other_ side, giving me sufficient energy to create a quantum event and take both universes back in time."

He took a long slurp of his Big Gulp. He had a blue one.

She stared at him.

"You're going to do that?"

"Oh yes."

"Now?"

"In about 20 minutes, once I connect the MD-85 power cell. Yes."

"You're going to take back time?"

"Theoretically, yes."

"Theoretically."

"Yes."

"Take back time."

"Yes."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Well then," he slurped up the last of the Big Gulp, smacked his lips, smiled happily. His tongue was blue. "Both universes will be entirely obliterated."

"Oh."

Not knowing what else to say, she slurped up the last of her Big Gulp and waited for the cold head rush to begin.

___________________

"And so you created one on your own?"

"I did."

"Aren't you the little scientist?"

"Do you want to see it?"

"Yes, please."

Peter reached into his pocket, pulled out the remote. His father had been so eager, and now, so proud. Everything he had ever wanted. A dream come true.

Walter turned the device over and over in his hands, taking it apart with his eyes. "Fantastic," he murmured. "I'd never thought to build a remote. Just never thought…" He glanced up. "And you did this with spare parts from a university lab?"

"I did."

"Fantastic."

Once when he was a little boy, Peter had made a napkin holder for his parents out of Popsicle sticks. He'd given it to them on their anniversary, and they had ogled over it as if it were a valuable painting or prize sculpture. Perched as he was on his father's desk, showing off his newest feat of engineering, he felt that way now.

He slipped the remote back into his pocket and folded his arms across his chest. "So, what exactly do you do here at _Massive Dynamic?"_

Walter smiled at him, held out his hands. "What _don't _we do?"

Waited a heartbeat. Waited for Peter to get it.

"That's our slogan, son."

"Ah. Right. Sorry."

"Never mind, son. It's not important. What do we do? Well," he leaned back in his chair, pressed an embedded button in the clear plastic. The Manhatan skyline disappeared, replaced by a virtual tour of the Massive Dynamic infrastructure, its mission statement and advertising campaign began scrolling across all four walls of the formerly 'completely white' office. Peter looked around, impressed. "We have over 170 labs that deal with all branches of science and technology, from aerospace and transportation to biomedical, from genetic mapping to videogaming, from communications to leisure. We are trying to make this world a better, more interesting place to live."

"Do you do experiments?"

"Of course, son! We make science fun."

"Do you do experiments on people?"

There was a glint, Peter noticed. Something he had seen in Walter – the other Walter – a glint of something hard, cold, edgy. But here, now, it disappeared quickly, replaced by a form of paternal pride. Of self-congratulation. And perhaps just a little condescension, that's all. No edge. Of course not. He was just being paranoid.

"That is always the last step, Peter. Surely you must understand. There is no application if there is no _human _application." He nodded, his deep-set eyes steady. "All of our people are willing -- no, _eager _– test subjects. They know that what they are participating in will only serve to enhance life on this planet, and elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?"

"It's a figure of speech, son."

"Sure. Okay. Sounds good. 'Cause…" Peter rubbed the side of his forehead. "...back in our world, _Massive Dynamic_ doesn't have such high regard for ethical or humane principles…"

"Back in _our_ world, son?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. I keep getting turned around."

"_This_ is your world."

"I know."

"All of it. _Massive Dynamic,_ my work to advance the boundaries of science, to elevate mathematics and technology to their purest, most eloquent forms, it's all for you."

"Thanks."

"I don't think you appreciate it."

"I don't think I do."

"You should. One day, you will."

Peter smiled. For some reason, the smile never made it to his eyes.

_______________

She had to admit that the tea had been very nice. It warmed her right down to her toes, and she realized that the last thing she had eaten was a finger full of mushy papaya back in _Rio de Janeiro._ It seemed like a lifetime ago.

She noticed a ripple in her teacup.

Tiny concentric circles in the golden liquid, as if a large animal or machine were moving nearby.

She frowned.

"It's already started," said William Bell, and she glanced up at him. "I will need your help."

"What's started? 'The Last Great Storm'?" That's what he had called it, almost a year ago.

"The first tremors of it, yes. But there is still a way to defer it."

_Momentum can be deferred…_

She set her cup down. Suddenly it wasn't so soothing anymore. "Why do you need me?"

"You need to make different choices."

"I don't understand."

Bell leaned back in his chair, took several long drags from his tank. He looked very old, very frail, but very determined.

"Walter and I postulated that this might happen. Once he opened a door, there was almost no way it could be closed again. The principles of Entropy, Enthalpy and Chaos would see to it."

She leaned forward. "But I thought Walter made a plug. Peter used it once, at Little Hill."

"Yes, a temporary measure. But like the old Hans Christian Anderson tale, once the dyke has been breached, there is almost no way to stop it. Forces on both sides, natural and otherwise, will see to it."

She nodded. He went on.

"Walter was insistent. I couldn't talk him out of it, but afterwards, after he had brought Peter from this side to the other, we discussed a way to repair the damage. It would mean sacrifices on his part, and on mine, but they would need to be done, otherwise both universes could be lost."

She was still following. That, she figured, was a good thing.

"We had created a device, the _Disintegration/Reintegration_ machine. Walter called it _**DisRe.**_"

"The teleportation device. The one David Robert Jones used."

"Yes, but it's not simply a teleportation device. In a multidimensional universe, matter is not the only thing that can be moved."

"What do you mean?"

"Matter is simply the physical manifestation of energy which has mass and occupies spacetime. But there are many manifestations of energy that can be moved, such as light, plasma, dark matter, quantum foam... time…" His voice trailed off, and he reached for the tank.

"Time?"

He nodded as he sucked in the vapours.

"Time? The _**DisRe**_ device can be used as a time machine?"

He removed the mask. "A 'closed timelike curve', to be specific. Yes."

"Closed timelike curve…" She shook her head now. "So you _did_ build a time machine. Walter said…" Her eyes flashed now. "Never mind. Walter said a lot of things. Please go on."

"Thank you. At any rate, we programmed the _**DisRe**_ device with two sets of co-ordinates, one for a projected date in what was then the future, and one for a projected date in what was then the past. If events panned out as we had feared, this would be our safety net, our 'failsafe' so to speak, to take things back to a time before we had tinkered, and to set everything back on track."

Her eyes grew round as things began to click into place like a Rubic's Cube. "The numbers…5.20.10, 6.15.85, 2.4.10. They're dates…"

"Yes. Today is May 20, 2010. That was the future date."

"5.20.10."

"Yes. The original past date was set to 6.15.85."

"June 15, 1985…" _Peter Bishop,_ the stone had read. _1978-1985._ "Peter died in 1985."

Bell nodded. "Precisely. We were meant to go back to the time before that, to a time before Walter opened that damned door…"

She frowned. "But that number was crossed out. There was another number on your daytimer. Another number circled in red."

"And now you see the problem. Walter has changed the co-ordinates. He is not willing to make that final sacrifice. I have made mine, but he has not made his. He is not willing to turn back time and leave his son in the grave where he belongs…" Bell was wheezing now, face stern, angry. The mask trembled as he breathed again and again. "But the second _**DisRe **_device, which I built specifically for this world, and which is set for the original past date of 6.15.85, is deep in the heart of _Massive Dynamic_. Under the protection of _this _world's Walter Bishop."

"Does he know about it?"

"Yes." More wheezing, more oxygen.

Her chest began to tighten. "But what happens if both devices activate with different co-ordinates?"

William Bell began to cough. He coughed and coughed until she thought he would surely burst, but finally, with the help of the mask, he brought his breathing under control. He breathed in, then out, in then out. Finally, he was able to remove it.

"What was that again, Olive?"

She took a deep breath herself, fearing that she already knew the answer.

"What happens if both devices activate with different co-ordinates?"

"Annihilation, my dear Olive. Utter, complete and total pan-dimensional annihilation."

* * *

The MD-85 was a tiny thing. In fact, it looked like a memory card, the kind people used for data storage in cameras and laptops and videogames. He popped a rusty hatch in the back of the _**DisRe**_, blew dust out of the circuits, twisted a few copper wires into place, snapped it in. With trembling fingers, he punched in a new set of co-ordinates, replacing 6.15.85 with 2.4.10. The machine clicked and Walter stepped back.

Astrid wrapped her arms 'round her chest.

"Cross your fingers." He turned to her. "I hope this works."

"_Walter…"_ she groaned.

He stepped forward again, flipped an archaic-looking switch.

Nothing happened.

Flipped it down, then up again.

Nothing.

Hit the side of the machine once with the palm of his hand.

Nothing.

He frowned. Stepped back to the device, pulled out the cell, blew it off, turned it over in his hand. Put it back in again. Flipped the switch.

Nothing.

Finally, he looked up at Astrid and swallowed.

"Oh dear…"

_________________

"I said shut it down!"

Walter Bishop was snarling into his Bluetooth-type headset with a ferocity Peter had rarely seen in the last year and a half. True, before he had been institutionalized, living with him had been a nightmare, swinging from mood to mood with little or no notice, those moods increasing in intensity as time wore on. In fact, it reminded Peter of one of the many reasons why he had hated this man.

And yet, this was not the same man.

Arms still folded across his chest, Peter waited.

"Is Agent Dunham still in the building? Good, tell her to join me. I'm coming down."

Peter couldn't help but sit up a little taller. "Olivia? Olivia is here?"

"Yes, yes, she's Homeland Liaison to _Massive Dynamic_. One of my best soldiers."

"Soldiers?"

"I don't have time for this now, son." He pushed himself up from his desk. "There is a… 'situation' in one of the departments. Please stay here. I will be back soon."

Peter rose as well. "I could come with you—"

"_NO!"_

For the second time, Peter flinched, startled. Walter struggled to regain composure. "No, son. It's not necessary. Please, just stay. I'll leave the presentation on. You can get a feel for the company, our dreams, our visions, your potential…please..."

Peter lowered himself back down to the edge of the desk. He swallowed, tried to smile.

"Good," said Walter. "Obedient. Just like your mother. Mad as a Hatter, she is. Always painting that damned yellow room, as if finishing it would finally bring you back. It's cost me a fortune paying people to repaint that damned room back to white, week after week for 23 years…"

And he turned and stormed out of the room, leaving his son sitting and shaking on the edge of the desk. He tried to still the thudding of his heart. It wasn't happening.

Less than a minute later, the door opened again, and Peter Bishop walked in.

_**End of Chapter 10**_


	11. Chapter 11

_Tenses, like time, are relative._

**Gone**

_**Chapter 11**_

"_Phillip? This is Nina. I'm afraid we have a bit of a situation. Please call me when you get this message."_

Phillip Broyles glanced at the time on the machine. Exactly one hour ago. His phone had been on the whole day but he had not received her call. Odd.

He dialed her number.

"_We're sorry. Your call cannot go through as dialed. Please hang up and try your call again. This is a recording."_

He frowned.

Went to find another phone.

The lights went out in the Federal Building.

* * *

"Are you ready, Olive?"

Olivia Dunham stared at the elevator.

The lights were flickering in the World Trade Center. Remarkable, really, since the view from out Bell's floor-to-ceiling windows was completely black. There were no lights on whatsoever in _Manhatan,_ and stars could be seen twinkling above for the first time in decades.

Bell stepped in first, turned to wait for her. She took a deep breath, crossed onto the platform.

He pressed a button, there was a flash of blue, and they were gone.

* * *

Peter Bishop stared at Peter Bishop.

"Whoa… um, okay. This is definitely 'Door Number Two'…" Peter rose to his feet. "So, I'm thinking Walter's finally slipped something into my pancakes. Something to help get my underdeveloped imagination up and running again, and I'm gonna wake up in a few hours with one hell of a headache after a perfectly wonderful evening of 'Just Drinks' with a beautiful blonde colleague. Don't just stand there, Peter. Say yes."

At the door, Peter said "Yes?"

"Good. Great. Swell. I feel so much better."

They stared at each other.

"You're…_ not_ a result of LSD in my pancakes, are you?"

"Um…"

Peter frowned. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two. How old are you?"

"Older."

It was true. The Peter Bishop who had just entered the room was a significantly younger version, younger and well… rounder. In fact, he reminded himself of_ Massive Dynamic's_ young, eager and rounder lab tech/whiz kid, Brandon, complete with shirt, tie and lab coat.

And he remembered his father's words. _You look like a piece of shit, boy. Go get changed. Put on a suit, and for God's sake, shave. _

It was beginning to make sense.

_How the hell should I know? In your office, one would presume. You should never come to work dressed like that._

Terrible, heart-breaking, death-defying sense.

_But you're so thin…_

He was looking at a clone.

And suddenly all notions of that 'Loving Family Reunion' were gone, vaporized like an atom in a Particle Accelerator.

* * *

"Walter!!!"

Astrid was following him around as he paced and dashed, mumbling to himself and throwing things on the floor. The lights were flickering in the lab, and tiny tremors shook papers and wires, petrie dishes and flasks around on their respective horizontal surfaces.

Dogs were howling like there was no tomorrow.

Which, she realized, was a distinct possibility.

"Walter!" She managed to grab his arm. "Walter, how can I help?"

"I don't know! I don't know! It should be working. I must be forgetting something but I don't know what it is!"

"Okay, okay…um… Maybe you need another Big Gulp?"

"Don't patronize me, girl!" He whirled on her, eyes blazing. "I am not a child!"

She stepped back. "I'm sorry, Walter. I didn't mean…"

And just like that, the fury was gone. His composure crumpled and the tears began to spill.

"Oh, my dear. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry…"

He reached out trembling hands and she took them, bundling him into her arms, holding him as he wept, hushing and soothing and humming to him, all the while, glancing around the lab for something, anything, that might help.

* * *

The bell chimed and the elevator doors hummed open onto a long white corridor.

She looked out. People in lab coats rushing in all directions, an overhead speaker in a reassuring voice calling for calm, for peace, for evolution. She glanced at Bell.

They were in the cold, white heart of _Massive Dynamic._

* * *

Younger Peter closed the door behind him.

"So you're the real thing?"

Older Peter laughed. This was so bizarre. Not a new division, not even a new department, but a whole brand-spanking new Big Box Store of Bizarre. "I don't know the answer to that anymore, kid. Not even a clue. Maybe I'm a figment of _your _imagination. Ever think of that?"

"All the time."

Older Peter grinned. He looked so young, this kid. He couldn't bring himself to think of him _as_ himself. It was just too weird.

"So," he folded his arms and leaned back against the desk. "You seem to know that you're…_not_ …the real thing…"

"Me? No. I'm not. Dr. Bishop created me. Seven years ago. I've lived the longest out of all of them."

"All of them?"

"Yeah. The others."

"There were others?"

"Yeah, lots. But they finally found out what it takes to keep us alive longer."

"Don't tell me – Pituitary glands."

His young eyes grew round. "How did you know?"

_Gee,_ Peter thought. He'd been a cute kid. What a baby face.

"We ran into one of your kind a while back. I'm kinda hoping you don't go around murdering young women and carving open the roofs of their mouths in the process, do ya?"

"Gosh, no. That would be wrong."

"Yeah," he nodded. "That would."

"Um, I need to find my father."

"You and me both."

Young Peter smiled.

Hand wrapped around the remote in his pocket, older Peter leaned forward, brow arched in patented sly rogue fashion. "Say, there wouldn't happen to be a functioning interdimensional-doorway-kind-of-machine up and running around here, would there?"

Young Peter swallowed.

_Bingo._

And older Peter smiled too.

* * *

The lights had gone out in the lab.

In fact, all the machines and electronic equipment had shut down as well, except for the _**DisRe.**_ It was positively glowing and shaking itself from side to side. She was amazed, however, that the CD player had also switched itself on, and the lab was now filled with music.

"_Gone Again Blues,"_ by Sonny Thompson.

Astrid sighed and looked over at Walter. He was sitting next to her on the floor, brow furrowed, rocking slightly back and forth. "It should be working," he was muttering to himself softly. "Why isn't it working?"

It hadn't really sunk in yet, she knew that full well. According to Walter, the universe was going to end very soon. That was kind of a big thing. How do you process a big thing like that, she wondered and she pulled her arms around her knees. Would it just go bang, and be over? Would there be a time of 'ending', where the dying part became really uncomfortable and hard? Would there be anything left after they were gone? And if space really was a vacuum, once they were gone, what would take their place?

No, she thought to herself. This was far too hard to process right now. It was much easier to concentrate on Walter as they sat together on the floor in the cold, very dark lab.

"Hey," she said softly. "It's okay."

To her surprise, he actually looked at her. There were tears streaming down his face. "No, Astrid. It's not okay."

"I know. I was just trying to cheer you up."

"Bless you." He smiled sadly. "I just wanted more time."

"I know."

"He was so young…so very young. I never had much time for him. I missed out on so much."

"I know."

"Do you think he's alive? Over there?"

"I don't know, Walter." She shrugged. "Probably."

"Do you think he hates me?"

Now she felt the tears stinging her eyes.

"No, Walter. I honestly don't think he hates you."

"Good," he said, nodding. "Good."

He smiled again.

"You know, I never had a daughter."

"Oh, Walter…"

"But if I had, I would have loved her to be like you."

She smiled through her own tears. "Thanks."

A light flickered on at the entrance to the lab, and both Astrid and Walter glanced up.

There is a bald man in the doorway.

* * *

The voice calling for calm had ceased, and the corridors were now empty. A distant claxon was sounding nonetheless, like the buzz of angry bees, and there was a serious hum going on from somewhere far beneath them. They stood at a window high above a vast chamber deep in the cold white heart of _Massive Dynamic._

"What is that thing," Olivia asked.

"A CMS," said Bell.

"A CMS?" Dunham frowned, put her hands on her hips. "I don't know much about that sort of thing, but that…shouldn't be _here."_

He looked at her. "_We _shouldn't be here."

She snorted. "Where's the _**DisRe?"**_

"Down there."

She made a face. "Guess I know why you brought me along."

"It's our only hope, Olive."

She nodded. "Right. 2.4.10. Got it."

Bell stepped around the curved window, swiped a card down a magnetic lock.

_Access Denied._

He frowned, tried it again.

_Access Denied._

"Damn. He's locking me out."

"What are we going to do?"

Bell took a deep breath. It looked hard for him to do. "This way. There's another way down."

And together, they set off down the cold white corridor.

* * *

"I shouldn't be showing you this."

"I know. But you are."

"Don't tell dad."

Though the claxon alarm was echoing in the long now empty white corridor, Peter Bishop stopped in his tracks. "You know, that's probably the most bizarre thing anyone's ever said to me."

Young Peter swallowed, glanced around. "I'm sorry. It's just, well, Dr. Bishop isn't a very nice man…"

"I kind of gathered that." He stepped forward, put a brotherly arm around the younger man. "But if you can show me that machine, I might be able to help you."

The lights flickered, dimmed, and suddenly, the corridor went dark. Emergency lighting sprang into life along the once white floor.

"This way," and together they set off down the now dark corridor.

* * *

"Walter Bishop."

Astrid held his arm as Bishop rose to his feet. "You?"

The man walks down the steps and into the lab proper. He stops directly in front of the pair. He cocks his head like a bird.

"You were not supposed to do this."

"I know," groaned Walter. "But I need a second chance. I need a chance to do it right."

"That is problematic," says the man.

"Can you help?"

"We are not supposed to interfere."

"But you have before. And if we're all gone, what are you going to do? Who are you going to observe?"

The man cocks his head in the other direction, blinks several times. "That is faulty logic."

Walter nodded, smiling sadly. "I am a faulty man."

"That is true."

Walter backpedaled, swung around to the _**DisRe,**_ gestured at it with both hands. "I don't understand. I have reset the co-ordinates, I have inserted the fuel cell, it should be working. I must have forgotten something…"

"No," says the bald man. "You have forgotten nothing."

"Then what?"

The man looks at Astrid, then back at Walter. "They… are not ready."

"They are not ready…?"

Walter frowned, blinked several times, and frowned some more. Suddenly, like the sun bursting through the clouds, he smiled.

"They are not ready. They are not ready! Thank you!" He grabbed the man's arms. "Thank you!"

"They will be ready soon."

He was breathing very hard, but slowly, hands still gripping the arms tightly, Walter looked down, smile fading back to sad.

"You… are the best friend I have ever had."

Astrid couldn't believe her eyes, for after a long, thoughtful moment, the bald man smiles back.

* * *

A CMS is a big thing.

A CMS running on overdrive in the dark is a scary big thing. From the ground level, which was actually deep under-ground, it towered above them several stories high. It was lit with blue, red and gold lights, and even though everything else around it was dark - almost black - large cylinders, tubes, tables and vats could be seen in dim silhouette against the flashing lights. There was steam rising and currents arcing from point to point in the room.

"In through here."

"Of course," Peter swallowed. "Naturally. Door Number 3."

The younger man swiped a key card and the door hissed open. The heat was almost a fist as it struck them in the face, forcing them to struggle for air as they stepped into the room. He could feel the magnetism pulling at his belt buckle, could feel the radiation burning through his skin. They were gonna come out of here with one serious sunburn. If, he realized, they came out at all.

He suddenly felt bad for the kid.

"It's right back here, behind the CMS."

The muzzle of a gun pressed against the back of his head.

"Don't move," said the deep husky voice of Olivia Dunham.

* * *

The ANTARES particle accelerator reaches critical mass, folds in on itself, and suddenly, within seconds, Australia is gone.

* * *

"Olivia?" asked Peter. He tried to turn but stopped when he heard the click of the safety.

"Dr. Bishop!"

"Not now!"

"Dr. Bishop, we have company!"

A figure stepped out from behind the huge bulk of the CMS. Illuminated with red and gold on one side only, Walter Bishop looked like something out of a horror movie.

"Peter!" He glanced from younger to older. "Peter?"

Young Peter stepped forward. "I'm sorry, Dr. Bishop. We were trying to help—" And a fierce backhand sent the younger man reeling into a steaming table before he hit the floor.

Peter Bishop had always been fast. He'd always credited that to good reflexes, but truth be told, he may have simply been living a split second ahead of anyone else. It had always given him the advantage. Now, with a few seconds of distraction, he ducked and swung his own hand back, snagging the Glock from Agent Olivia Dunham and yanking it out of her grasp. He flipped into a grip of his own, pointed it first at her, then at his father before carefully crossing the floor toward the younger man.

"What the hell are you doing here, son?" snarled Walter. "It's not safe!"

"Yeah. About that." Peter reached down, helped the younger man to his feet. Gun still trained on Walter, but eyes fixed on Dunham, he fished in his pocket for the remote. "Here, kid. Take this and get outta here. Press green, green, green, red, and hold your breath."

"What?"

"Just go. _Now!"_

The younger version of himself obeyed, grabbing the device, threw one long last glance at his father, and disappeared out of the flashing, steaming, hissing room. Within moments, the twenty-two year old Peter Bishop was gone.

"What are you doing, son?" Walter stepped forward again, hands wide.

"What are _you_ doing, Walter?" Peter growled back, swinging the gun towards Dunham. She was moving now slowly, hands wide, cagey.

"I'm trying to save us all. Please, Peter, put the gun down. Let me finish."

"Just tell me what are you doing."

And suddenly, another voice. "Don't let him touch it, Peter…"

And out of the flashing, steaming, hissing room, emerged two more figures, one tall and bony, the other with a long ponytail and holding a Glock.

* * *

CERN's Large Hadron Collider reaches critical mass, folds in on itself, and suddenly, within seconds, Switzerland, France and most of Europe is gone.

* * *

"Peter!"

"Olivia?"

There is no hesitation. He lowers the weapon, arms sagging at his side, and releases a long breath. He is very, very tired. He just wants this all to end, and she is his release. There is no hesitation on her part either, and she rushes forward, catching him in her arms, wrapping herself around him as if just the act of holding on would mean never letting go.

Glock still in one hand, she reaches for his face and kisses him.

It is the kiss they were meant to have, that night, so long ago. At _Massive Dynamic._ In New York City. February 4, 2010. The night everything changed.

The other Olivia Dunham watches, fascinated.

William Bell steps around the pair. "It's over, Walter. We need to take this back."

"No, Bellie. It's my turn now." Nobody sees that Walter Bishop has a gun.

"Walter, there is only one way—"

The sound of gunshot surprises everyone, including William Bell, whose small eyes grow round and he staggers back first one, then two steps before his knees buckle and he begins to sink. The other Agent Olivia Dunham catches him before he hits the ground.

"Choices," he hisses, his breath ragged and thin. "Make different choices…"

"Willem," she says softly.

"Stop this… my Olive…"

And William Bell is gone.

* * *

The _Tevatron_ Particle Accelerator reaches critical mass, folds in on itself, and suddenly, within seconds, Texas and most of Mexico is gone.

* * *

One Olivia Dunham lowers the body of William Bell to the ground, while the other steps away from Peter Bishop and raises her Glock.

"Drop it Walter," she says, her voice deep, like steel.

"I didn't mean to..." Walter Bishop seems surprised that he has killed his best friend. He stares at his gun, a small Beretta, a sharp and mean little weapon. "I didn't..."

"I said drop it."

"Just do as she says, Walter," echoes Peter. "We're all gonna die anyway…"

"No, Peter. No." Olivia glances at him. "That's not true. There is a fail-safe—"

"And I have turned it on!" Walter is wire-tight, eyes wide and intense, and it is frightening. "We are going back, yes, to 1985. And I will be waiting. Waiting for _your _Walter. I will stop him from taking what was mine. He took everything! My son, my wife, my _life!"_

"No, listen to me." Olivia braces herself, tightening her grip on the Glock. His Beretta is aimed at her chest. "Our Walter has changed the co-ordinates. 2.4.10. February 4, 2010."

Walter frowns, Peter is puzzled.

"Why?" they both say at the same time.

"I, I don't know. That was the night the second building vanished, crossed over to this side. The night the _Cortexiphan_ kicked in."

"The night you saw me…" says Peter softly, understanding. "The night everything changed."

She gasps, nods, understands, fights to keep the tears out of her eyes. She needs to stay sharp, in control.

"I messed up. I shouldn't have told you, I should have done something different, I don't know…"

She can't bring herself to look at him. He is smiling at her, eyes shining. He loves her and she finally knows how much. She's been such a fool.

"We can take this back a few months." He says. "Give us all a second chance."

"No," says Walter. "That's not far enough. He still wins…" He hikes his Beretta for a better shot. "That's not fair."

"It's a second chance, Walter," she says. "We can't change the past. Not yet, and not right now. But if we all live, we may be able to change the future. We will go back and make different choices, better choices. I won't leave that night, Peter won't run. It will all be different. Please Walter, let me pass."

She takes another step. "Let me do this. I need to do this."

"It's not fair…It's not fair…_It's not fair!"_

And with a deep ragged shaking breath, Walter Bishop pulls the trigger.

_**End of Chapter 11**_


	12. Chapter 12

_Back to the Beginning…_

**Gone**

_**Chapter 12**_

Peter Bishop had always been fast.

He saw the microscopic change in his father's expression, moving from white hot to dead cold in a heartbeat, saw the left index finger tighten on the Beretta's trigger, knew there was no way in hell Olivia would be able to dodge the impending bullet, and he also knew that there was no way in that same hell he would allow that to happen.

And so he moved.

Peter Bishop had always been fast.

But today, May 20, 2010, he just wasn't fast enough.

* * *

Even the music was gone, now, and the floor of the dark lab was still. It was the remains of the planet that was vibrating.

The three of them were sitting on the floor, backs against a wall, Astrid, Walter and the bald man. He was sitting like a mannequin, legs straight out in front of him, arms resting elegantly in his lap. Astrid wondered if he had a name, and what it might be.

Would it be a normal name, like Walter or Peter or Charlie? Maybe a foreign name like Nebuchadnezzar or Confucius or Gianulca. Maybe an alien name, maybe something so alien that she couldn't even pronounce it if she tried.

She glanced over at him. He was looking at her with that calm, steady gaze of his.

"September," he says quietly.

"Cool," she said.

They sat for a while longer in absolute silence, with the exception of the _**DisRe **_humming happily in the far corner. There was nothing more to do but wait.

The bald man cocks his head like a dog hearing a far away whistle.

"Yes," he says to no one in particular, "Of course. To every action there is always an equal and opposite reaction."

They looked over at him.

"Sometimes it just takes time."

Walter took a deep breath. "What are you saying?"

The man named September looks at him sadly. "I am sorry, Walter Bishop."

Slowly, Walter nodded, eyes filling with tears once again.

* * *

She could have sworn that time was slowing down.

The impact was like a freight train, pushing her almost off her feet, and it was only the strength of Peter's arms that kept her from falling completely. As it was, they crashed into the huge hissing humming mainframe of the CMS, causing a new set of sparks to leap up to the towering ceiling above and beyond. She struggled to stand, and still his arms held her.

"Are you alright?"

She shook her head, tried to push him off – her Glock was gone, _damn,_ she needed her gun – but his grip was iron on her arms.

"Olivia, tell me you're alright!"

There was something in his voice.

"Uh, yeah, yeah, I think so…"

"Good," he gasped. "Good…"

He didn't seem to want to let go.

"Peter, I'm fine. I need to reset those co-ordinates."

"Yeah," he smiled at her, but still, there was something. "Yeah, go."

She frowned.

Finally, he released his grip on her arms and he stepped back. "Go," he said again, but his breathing was coming short and shallow and he instinctively wrapped an arm around his ribs. Even through the flashing red and gold lights, there was a sheen of something on his T-shirt, under the jacket, and she felt a wave drain her from head to toes.

"Peter…"

"I'm alright. Go."

"Oh my God. Peter..."

"Olivia, please, go reset those co-ordinates."

She couldn't move.

_First John, then Charlie…_

"_**Go!"**_

First one step, then a second, Olivia Dunham whirled and disappeared into the dark flashing shadow of the machine.

* * *

September rises to his feet.

"They are ready. It is time."

* * *

He could have sworn that time was slowing down.

He tried to stay on his feet. He tried not to let the tremors take hold of his body, making him seem that he was all flesh and no bones, but it had become very difficult to breathe, his mouth tasted like copper and a white hot ring of pain burned his ribcage from the inside out. Sitting just seemed a better idea. He felt a woman's arms on him, helping to lower him to the floor, and for a moment, he was confused.

"Olivia?"

"Well," she said as she knelt down beside him. "Sort of. Let me see."

"Nah. It's okay. I just gotta...catch my...breath..." He tried to wave her off, but for some reason, couldn't lift his arm. It felt like lead. In fact, it felt just like back in _Rio,_ when he'd jumped across a roof, opened a transdimensional doorway, and been hit with a tranquilizer or three. Just like that.

Maybe a little worse.

Her green eyes met his. "Yeah," she lied. There was blood on her fingers. "It's okay. You love her?"

He smiled. He felt very tired now.

She leaned down to kiss him on the forehead. "She knows," and she rose to her feet and was gone.

* * *

It was there, sandwiched behind the CMS and a panel of copper tubing. In fact, if it hadn't been for the two sets of glowing numbers, she might never have found it in the dark. Now, as she neared it, it looked old and out of place, like something out of Walter's lab.

Damn, but she missed that place so much.

She could save it. She could save them. She had to. She was the one.

It shouldn't be too hard. It shouldn't be this hard.

Time was slowing down.

* * *

It seems as if time is slowing down.

The _**DisRe **_device looks like a washing machine with an unbalanced load, shaking as it is from side to side. There are sparks coming from it and Astrid is a little nervous approaching it. Walter doesn't seem to see it at all, and she knows he is battling something terrible inside, but doesn't know what. However, the bald man, September, seems to understand and she finds herself grateful that he hasn't left them on their own.

Walter reaches a trembling hand for the archaic lever, takes a long look at the man who is only supposed to observe.

"Are you certain?" he asks.

"Yes," says September.

"Can you make sure we don't do this again? Please? I don't want to do this again."

The bald man cocks his head. He has a gentle face. "It is up to you. It is a matter of choice."

"Help us make the right choices."

"I will see what I can do," he says sympathetically.

Walter blinks several times, and takes a deep breath.

He flips the lever up.

The lights go out in Boston.

* * *

"Son…"

Peter manages to open his eyes. A face is looming, close, almost too close, but it's okay. He knows this face.

"Daddy," he says. It is very hard to breathe.

"I'm so sorry, son…"

His dad folds down beside him, pulls him into his arms. Dads are good for that sort of thing. They always know what to do.

And with a soft, trembling voice, Walter Bishop begins to sing.

_"Van Amburgh is the man… who goes to all the shows…"_

Peter smiles. He loves that song.

_"He goes into the lion's cage, and tells you all he knows."_

Walter goes on, as the tears spill down his face.

_"He sticks his head in the lion's mouth and keeps it there a-while,_

_And when he pulls it out again, he greets you with a smile._

_The elephant goes around, The band begins to play, _

_The boys around the monkey's cage had better get out of the way. _

_That Hyena in the next cage, most terrible to relate, _

_Got awful hungry the other day, and ate up his female mate; _

_He's a very ferocious beast, don't go near him little boys, _

_For when he's angry he shakes his tail, and makes this awful noise. _

_The peacock is a pretty bird, his tail is wondrous fine, _

_The Jay bird and the jackdaw are mad to see it shine,_

_The Kangaroos are jumping, and rattling the cage door,_

_Look out ye little boys, for the lion's going to roar._

_Look out all ye little boys, for the lion's going to roar."_

And all Peter Bishop's nightmares finally come to an end, as his father sings him to sleep.

* * *

it seems as if time is slowing down

olivia dunham reaches a slow heavy hand pushes the number pad changing time from

6.15.85

to

2.

4.

1

0.

the machine clicks she reaches for an archaic lever somehow knowing this is what she must do

she cannot do it it is too hard she is too slow

peter

she's failed him

peter

she tries again

peter

she loves him

she's failed at that too

failed

another hand reaching not hers but hers

olivia dunham wraps her fingers around olivia dunham's fingers

she smiles

together two universes pull an archaic lever

and time

stands

still

* * *

It all started with a bang. A big one.

And ever since then, the universe has been expanding, rapidly and perhaps exponentially expanding, from its centre outwards, with only a few random cosmic strings to keep everything together. Nothing much slows it, nothing ever stops it, but just because something hasn't happened, doesn't mean something can't.

You see, Walter Bishop happened.

It starts small, only two planets, folding in on themselves in closed timelike curves, two universes bending timespace in such a way that the aforementioned expansion (which has been going on since the beginning of now-time) slows. In fact, not only does it slow, for a fraction of a second, it actually ceases. For a fraction of a nanosecond, the universes condense, slide back, retreat. Naturally, timespace goes with them, and for one fraction of a fraction of a nanosecond, the entire multiverse holds its breath.

And there is a flash of blue light.

________________

The date is February 4, 2010.

"No, Astrid please, no more music. He's been playing the same song over and over all day. It's making me crazy." Peter Bishop grinned as he talked into the phone. "Yeah, Sonny Thompson. No, not that one, a different one. I think it's called _"I'm Coming Back Home to Stay,"_ or something crazy like that. He's been muttering about choices…C'mon, you'll have fun... Yeah, _Monopoly's _great. He loves the coloured money… Okay, thanks again. See you soon."

He swung around as Walter ambled into the room, plastic cup and spoon in hand.

"That was Astrid. She's gonna come over and play some games with you."

"Oh. Good," said Walter, mouth full of custard. "I hope she likes _Monopoly._ Where are you going?"

Peter paused on the stairs. "Me? I'm going out for drinks."

"Oh?" said Walter, surprised. "Who are you drinking with?"

"Olivia."

"Agent Dunham? A _date?"_ Walter's brows went high as he smiled.

He leaned on the banister, suddenly feeling like a little boy. "No. 'Just Drinks.' Apparently, that's what normal people do. They go out for drinks."

His father beamed, did a shuffling little dance, custard in one hand, spoon in the other.

Peter shook his head and trudged up the stairs.

_Just Drinks._ If it was just drinks, then why was he thinking he needed to change something, do something different? As if something important actually rode on his decisions? Nerves, he told himself. She made him feel like a schoolboy sometimes. But still…

He changed into a button-down shirt and sweater, trying to look professional, attractive, together. Just in case…

* * *

On the other side of town, Olivia Dunham is getting ready for 'just drinks.'

She grabs her jacket, takes one last look in the mirror by her bed. Professional, attractive, together. Smoothes the golden hair that is pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck.

Professional. Attractive. Together.

She needs to do something different, to change something somehow. She doesn't know why. Maybe she's in a rut and needs to change that.

She loosens the band and shakes her hair out. It falls over one eye, sexy.

Yep, tonight, she's gonna do sexy.

Poor Peter Bishop, he won't even know what hit him.

She grins to herself and swings out of the room.

__________________

As she bounces up the step to their house and the night begins to unfold as it will, there are choices that will be made along the way. Different choices, perhaps better ones, if time, fate and William Bell have anything to do with it.

And this time, there is a bald man watching from the street corner.

_**The End of this Direction**_


End file.
